The One That Came Back

Each week, I give away rosary beads.

I have apparently become a Catholic tooth fairy.

I keep rosaries everywhere. In my pockets, in my bag, in the car. Usually one or two are somewhere on me at any given moment. My children sleep with them under their pillows because I put them there, and I sleep with one under mine too.

And, of course, I put one under Erin's pillow.

Occasionally she rolls over during the night and wakes up with what looks like a tiny crucifix embossed into the side of her face. I find this considerably more amusing than she does.

There are worse things to wake up with.

I don't think the beads themselves are magic. They're beads and string. Sometimes very beautiful beads and string, but still. It's what they lead us toward that matters: prayer, stillness, Mary, Jesus. A reminder that suffering and love have always lived much closer together than we'd prefer.

And when life gets loud — and mine has gotten pretty loud — there is something incredibly comforting about holding something that reminds me I don't have to figure everything out.

So sometimes I give them away.

I should clarify that I do not walk through parking lots yelling, "HEY! WOULD YOU LIKE SOME MAGICAL CATHOLIC BEADS?"

That would probably hurt recruitment.

It happens more quietly than that. I notice someone. Maybe they're sitting alone. Maybe they look tired. Maybe there's something in their face that tells me they're carrying more than whatever is visible. Sometimes we start talking, even if only for a few minutes.

And every once in a while, I get this little feeling.

Give them the rosary.

I've learned not to argue with that feeling very much.

So I reach into my pocket. "This might sound strange…"

Which, historically, is not a promising way to start a conversation with a stranger.

Then I explain what it is. Some people are Catholic. Some aren't. That part has never mattered much to me. I just tell them the truth: these help me. When my mind is racing. When I'm worried about my kids. When I want to fix something badly and finally have to admit that I can't. Maybe they could help you too.

Almost every time, the reaction follows the same strange little progression. Surprise. Confusion. A look that says, Is this guy seriously giving me a rosary right now?

And then something softens.

They take it.

Some say thank you and I never see them again. Others find me weeks later. "I still have those beads." "I keep them in my car." "They're next to my bed." One person started wearing them.

I never ask for progress reports. There is no Rosary Distribution Department tracking outcomes.

The other day, though, I was at church and got talking with someone younger than me. And the feeling came.

The only problem was that the rosary in my pocket was my favorite.

I hesitated for half a second, because I really loved that one. Apparently I have reached the spiritual maturity where I am willing to surrender worldly possessions, provided they are not my favorite worldly possessions.

But I've learned not to argue. So I handed it over.

They held it for a while, turning the beads, looking at the crucifix. They thanked me. And I walked away feeling pretty good about myself.

Twenty minutes later, they came back, holding the rosary.

"I can't take this."

They told me it was beautiful. They were afraid they might break it. They could tell it meant something to me, and they insisted I keep it. I tried once to tell them it was okay. They insisted again.

So I took it back.

No one had ever returned one before, and I didn't quite know what to do with that. Part of me wondered if I'd misread the moment. Maybe they weren't ready. Maybe I'd made them uncomfortable.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I had done what I was supposed to do.

I offered. That was all.

Maybe someday that person will want a rosary. Maybe they never will. Either way, for twenty minutes, they carried one. And for twenty minutes, they knew someone had noticed them, cared enough to stop, and thought enough of them to offer something that mattered.

And maybe someday, on a night when life feels impossible, they'll find their fingers moving across a string of beads and discover what I've discovered so many times:

You don't always need the right words.

Sometimes you just need something to hold onto.

The rosary they returned is back in my pocket now.

My favorite one.

For the moment, anyway.

I have a feeling it still belongs to somebody else.

I just haven't met them yet.