I like to pray. More often than not, my prayer is a conversation with God, asking, thanking and sometimes just acknowledging. I also like saying prayers with words that I have known since childhood. More like a mantra, a chant without thinking.
These past few weeks with so much uncertainty around us, I have returned to saying the rosary. As a child I carried the beads at my First Communion and Confirmation. When my Mother died, her rosary was intertwined in her hands, folded in their final resting place.
Over the years, my rosary was packed away, along with all the remembrances of my Catholic school education. It was nestled next to the statue of our Blessed Mother, a childhood keepsake; the holy medals I had won for winning this competition or that; the missal written in English that explained the meaning of the Latin words being spoken on the altar. It was a box of memories of an era long ago past.
With so much unscheduled time on my hands, I found myself looking through this collection. I returned it back to its original spot, putting the box back on the shelf where it had gathered dust for many a year. I kept the rosary beads. They felt at once familiar and reassuring.
I clutch the beads in my hands as I go for my walk. The rosary takes less than a mile to complete. The prayers float by, I recite them silently as I move my fingers from one bead to the next. When I am done, there is a sense of peace that fills the space within me.
I recommend praying. It matters not for whom or to whom. It helps counteract the insecurity of these days with something that is known. The act of praying can be traced to ancient civilizations. It is easy to understand why it has lasted.