Fumbling Toward a Family Rosary

The beautiful double kneeler John’s brother made for us as a wedding present in our first grad school apartment
Through a confluence of factors, this summer has been our rosary summer. We’ve had friends experience births and losses — something that always brings me back to the slow rhythm of the rosary — and in starting Police Preschool, it’s something I wanted to make a part of our family life.

In addition, some families from our church have been working to get a small group rosary going one Friday evening a month. I love those moments of praying in community: it feels a little like a quilting bee on the frontier, where together we cheerfully make something big and beautiful in no time.

On the other hand, praying the rosary myself — even a decade at a time with a two- and four-year-old — feels as if I were trying to make a quilt by hand, all by myself: snarled and interrupted, often redone, painstakingly slow.

But those corporate Friday rosaries point toward what I might have, someday, if we stretch our spiritual muscles and build up the discipline as a family. There are glimmers even now, a few weeks in: Scout asking for the silicone “rosie” my dad made her; Pippin asking me to explain the mystery we are tackling that day; the old familiarity of my chipped, beautiful cloisonne rosary, given to me by a friend for my 21st birthday, blessed by the sweet monsignor of our college church — or the battered wooden rosary J bought me in Seoul before he was even Catholic — or the sparkly crystal rosary my godmother gave me for my First Communion present. (Rosaries get misplaced with alarming frequency at our house, if you can’t tell.)

The truth is, I don’t think I’ve consistently prayed the rosary since college, when I’d pray every night in that anxious, homesick season to help me fall asleep, more often than not waking when I dropped the rosary mid-prayer. Trying to instate a family rosary now seems crazy, as Pippin swipes through pictures on my phone of today’s mystery, or Scout shouts, as usual, that our decade should be offered for “ME!!!,” and it’s totally unclear if anyone is getting anything out of this practice. But it starts my mornings of Police Preschool right, even when it leaves me flustered: remembering my reliance on God, praying desperately that good intentions and earnest modeling are enough, in the end.

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