Saturday, July 26, 2025

A Rosary at the Grotto

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

I don’t say those words out of belief. I say them because I’ve learned to value beginning. Every ritual needs a door. This one opens with touch: fingers to forehead, chest, shoulders. The sign of the cross is a gesture I’ve never claimed as mine, but I’ve borrowed it more than once. A borrowed key, used not to enter the Church, but to enter silence.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…

I don’t know that I believe in heaven. I do know what it means to ask for guidance. To want something greater than yourself to help make sense of the smallness of your days. There’s something grounding in saying Our Father—not my father. The communal language matters. I said it quietly at the Grotto, surrounded by strangers and their whispered prayers. I didn’t need to believe in a Father to believe in the desire behind the words.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…

First bead. The words are already in my muscle memory. I’ve said them enough times that my mind doesn’t fight them anymore. They come like breath. I think of my students, the ones who are always on the edge—of graduation, of falling apart. I think of the ones who’ve found grace in places that offered them none. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. I do not dwell on theology. I dwell on fruit. On what is born of pain. On what survives.

Hail Mary…

Second bead. I remember the monks at Saint Gregory’s Abbey. Their voices were quiet but steady, like water over stone. I knew the psalms. I knew the silence between them. There is power in saying things you do not need to own. In honoring something by repeating it with care.

Hail Mary…

Third bead. My brother brought me a rosary from Notre Dame in Paris. I think of him as I stand here in Indiana, holding this green stone rosary in my hand. Shamrocks carved in each bead. A small act of beauty. A reminder that journeys fold into each other. His pilgrimage, now part of mine.

Hail Mary…

Fourth bead. I light a candle for my mother. For my father. For my students and for myself. The flames beside me flicker in uneven rhythm. So many intentions in one small alcove. It’s a cathedral made of grief and hope and repetition. A chapel built into a hillside, not to shield us from the world, but to help us face it.

Hail Mary…

Fifth bead. I’m not a Christian. Not even a lapsed one. But I’ve studied religion enough to know that belief is not always a matter of doctrine. Sometimes it is simply attention. Reverence without certainty. Ritual without apology.

Hail Mary…

Sixth bead. I remember Marian Days, years ago. Buying a rosary under a white tent in Carthage while children played in the shade of the Shrine. I didn’t speak the language of the hymns, but I didn’t have to. Sacredness needs no translation.

Hail Mary…

Seventh bead. I think of my coworkers. Of friends walking through quiet devastations. I say their names in my mind. I let each one land like a drop in water.

Hail Mary…

Eighth bead. This prayer was never meant to be dissected. It was meant to be repeated. That’s where its power lies—not in argument, but in rhythm. In doing the thing even when you don’t fully know why.

Hail Mary…

Ninth bead. I start to feel peace. Not ecstasy. Not insight. Just peace. That’s enough.

Hail Mary…

Tenth bead. I am silent for a moment after the final words leave my lips. Not because I’ve come to a conclusion, but because I haven’t. The repetition has stilled something. That is its own reward.

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit…

The prayer ends as it began—with the Trinity. I don’t claim it, but I honor its form. Beginning, middle, end. There is wisdom in a circle. In returning to where you started, but not quite the same.