THE ROPE THAT HOLDS ME

If you told me two years ago I’d own four sets of rosary beads and sneak them under my kids’ pillows like some kind of Catholic Tooth Fairy, I’d have laughed you right out of my kitchen. Rosary beads, to me, were childhood relics—like VHS tapes or the belief that I’d someday have abs.

Then one day, I found my old First Communion beads in a dusty little pouch that smelled like church pews and my grandmother’s purse. I picked them up… and felt this tiny tug inside my chest. Not dramatic. Not holy lightning. More like, “Hey Mike, I’m here.”

So I started praying the rosary.
Just to see.
Just to breathe.

And surprisingly?
I liked it.

Not because I understand all the mysteries (I absolutely do not). Not because I suddenly became holy (also no).

But because the beads slow me down. They’re like a weighted blanket for my soul. A rhythm for my runaway brain. A rope I grab when life gets loud.

Now I pray every day.
Not out of obligation... out of sanity.

I even bought sets for Erin and the kids and slide them under their pillows at night.

Is this weird? Probably. Does it comfort me anyway? Absolutely.

Regardless your faith, I’m finding faith doesn’t usually return with blaring trumpets or revelations. It sneaks back in through the small things— a bead, a breath, a moment you actually notice.

I used to think prayer was about convincing God to show up. Now I know it’s what happens when I finally do.

And the rosary?

It’s not a ritual for perfect people.

It’s just the rope that keeps me steady
in a world that keeps spinning.

And don’t we all need something to hold on to?

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