Dear journal,
Framed in a carved wooden arch that echoes the ribs of a medieval cathedral, my rosaries hang like relics. They’re not relics of saints or martyrs, but relics of my own journey—reminders of belief held, questioned, and reshaped. One came from my brother, who’s given me more grace than I’ve sometimes earned. One was a gift from a friend during my time at Saint Gregory’s Abbey, a time when the pull of monastic rhythm made the world feel less fractured. One I bought after visiting the Basilica in St. Louis, overwhelmed by the grandeur of that sacred space. A necklace from Assisi came from my brother as well, a thread of Franciscan gentleness I didn’t know I needed. And one, always in my pocket, is a smooth metal WWI field rosary—sturdy, silent, designed for muddy trenches and trembling hands.
I don’t carry it because I believe in miracles. I carry it because it reminds me to be still.
After my time at the Abbey, I joined both its confraternity and the Confraternity of the Holy Rosary. I wanted to inhabit the world of ritual without needing to answer for belief. For a while, I was faithful to the practice. I said the rosary daily. I embraced the liturgical calendar. I found comfort in the thrum of chant, the pattern of prayers, the tactile presence of beads between my fingers. And though I no longer believe in the supernatural, I have not let go of the ritual. I find it still has work to do in me.
This is not faith in the traditional sense. It is rhythm. It is presence. It is the psychology of meditation, cloaked in the language of devotion. When I pray the rosary now, I am not pleading with heaven. I am anchoring myself.
Zen Buddhism calls this zazen—just sitting. Not with purpose, not with performance, but with intention. In silence, you sit with the body as it is. With the mind as it is. You don’t try to silence thought; you watch it drift, like smoke. The goal isn’t enlightenment, but attention. It’s a practice of staying.
The rosary is not so different. Its repetition can be mindless or mindful, depending on the posture of the heart. Each Hail Mary is a breath. Each mystery a meditation. Joy, sorrow, light, and glory—all facets of human experience. The rosary becomes not a ladder to heaven, but a mirror of our own condition: our longings, our griefs, our small daily resurrections.
The Rule of Saint Benedict begins with this invitation: “Listen carefully, my son, to the master’s instructions, and attend to them with the ear of your heart.” That line has never left me. It’s what I think of when my fingers press against those worn metal beads. I am trying to listen—not for a divine voice, but for my own steadiness in the midst of noise. I am trying to attend to the rhythm that still guides me, even when belief no longer does.
The rosary is not my only anchor. In recent years, I’ve turned to the Stoics. They, too, knew the power of ritual and rhythm. Memento mori—remember that you will die. It’s not a threat, but a liberation. It reminds me that I don’t have infinite time to love well, to act justly, to forgive, or to rest. As Marcus Aurelius wrote, “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.”
In that spirit, the rosary becomes a string of moments—a reminder that I am alive, here, now. That my actions are mine alone, and that my peace cannot depend on circumstances I cannot control. The rosary, like Stoic discipline, teaches stillness. And from stillness, clarity.
I do not pray because I believe in divine intervention. I pray because I believe in the human need to be present. Because I believe in the body as a vessel of wisdom. Because I have known the way the mind settles when given something to hold, something to return to.
When I reach for the rosary in my pocket, I am not grasping for God. I am grounding myself. I am choosing to be fully human. To sit with pain, with memory, with hope. To mark time with ritual, not because it fixes anything, but because it reminds me I am not lost.
The rosaries on my wall are not there for show. They are hung like icons in a chapel of memory. They tell the story of a man who once believed, who once knelt in full certainty. And they tell the story of the same man, changed now, but still praying. Not with conviction, but with presence.
Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum;
benedicta tu in mulieribus,
et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus.
Sancta Maria, Mater Dei,
ora pro nobis peccatoribus,
nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.
Always,
Dave