The Rosary

I grew up Catholic—tall cathedrals, stained glass windows, incense wafting through the air, the whole nine yards. But over the years, my visits to church dwindled, and my belief in the teachings faded. I became apathetic, much to my mother’s dismay. She always knew I was the rebel of the family, the notoriously difficult child with tantrums and a headstrong spirit—typical middle child behavior.

Despite this, growing up Catholic instilled some beautiful lessons in me. I learned the value of generosity, the importance of charity, and the wisdom of loving my neighbor as myself. I practiced these principles quietly in my own life, even if my mother never quite recognized it. I may have moved away from the church but the church always stayed with me. 

But it was my grandmother’s death that brought me back to my roots. 

Nana Ethel was my mother’s mother. I was never particularly close to her. She was a foreboding woman, tall and thin as a rail, her nose was hooked, and she made a practice of wearing dark colors. There were many rumors around time that Nana Ethel practiced dark magic because of her fondness for crystals, burning sage, and her lack of attendance at Sunday Mass. The rumors were bullshit, of course. Nana Ethel was somewhat agoraphobic; she hated leaving the house if she didn’t have to. As for her fondness of crystals, it was a childhood fascination that lasted till adulthood. She adored their complexity and beauty. The burning of sage was something her grandmother had done, as an Indigenous woman who was highly superstitious. And her lack of attendance to Sunday Mass had to do with her agoraphobia. She listened to preachings over the radio, though those preachers were mostly Evangelical. “Ah, it’s all the same thing,” she’d say whenever my mom brought up the subject. “Catholic, Baptist, Methodist-it all boils down to the same teachings.” 

When Nana Ethel was diagnosed with advanced stage four lung cancer, my world came to a standstill. I realized how little I truly knew about her. Throughout my childhood, she had been a familiar figure, often standing alone and smoking a cigarette, her presence more haunting than comforting. Though there were rare moments when she offered solace, she was more likely to chastise me for my misbehavior. In contrast, I felt a closer bond with my father’s mother, Patricia, who was loving and kind, always in the kitchen baking treats.

Nana Ethel’s diagnosis and rapid decline forced me to confront the stark reality that life is fleeting, urging me to embrace it fully. There was so much about her I had never known. After her passing, I learned that she had served as an Army nurse during World War II, tending to wounded soldiers with both skill and compassion. She read to them, sharing books and letters from home, providing comfort amidst their suffering. I discovered she was part of a book club that explored works by Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Faulkner, and others. Although I often saw her with a book in hand, I never knew she engaged in such intellectual pursuits.

In my small town, Nana Ethel was held in high esteem, an odd contrast to the distant figure I had known. On the last night of her life, I visited her in the hospital, a place I detest for its sterile smell and the haunting presence of illness. I loathed being surrounded by sick people, as it forced me to confront my own mortality. But my mother insisted I go. “It would mean a lot to her. You were her favorite.” I struggled to recall any favoritism between me and my sister, but I reluctantly made my way to her bedside.

The room she was in smelled strongly of disinfectant and sage. She seemed too small for her bed. I cleared my throat and she looked at me, her cheeks hollow and eyes heavily hooded. There was a breathing apparatus attached to her. Each breath was occupied by a beep from a machine. The sight was slightly horrifying and I wanted to escape but she saw me. Nana Ethel smiled softly. “Hello, Tessa,” she said, her voice raw from her coughing fits. I walked further into the room. She motioned to a seat at her bedside. “Sit. Make yourself at home.” I did as she asked, uncomfortably. I found it hard to look at her. Nana Ethel always seemed so strong and to see her so weakened shook me to my core. 

“It won’t be long,” she whispered. “Soon I will fade into the abyss and be confronted with the good Lord.”

“How do you…How are you dealing with that?” I asked, unsure of what to say. 

“Oh, I’ve made my peace with it. I’ll be with my husband again after nearly a decade being apart. I’ll be with my eldest son, who you never knew. He passed while serving in Vietnam.” She was referring to her son, Ollie. I heard stories about him throughout my life. Mom rarely spoke of him but Dad did, they were friends before Dad started courting Mom back in the late sixties. 

I nodded, not sure what to say. 

“So why have you come in my final hours, hmm?”

“I guess…” my voice faded. I felt a lump form in my throat. Tears welled in my eyes. I felt a strong urge to escape the room. “To say goodbye.”

“Yes,” she sighed. “Yes, a goodbye is necessary for closure.”

We spent a few moments gazing at each other, and it was difficult for me to confront the fragility I saw in her—how much weight she had lost, something I once thought impossible. I quickly wiped away my tears, feeling the weight of the moment.

Nana Ethel reached around her neck, taking off her rosary and holding it out to me. I reached out a trembling hand and she dropped the rosary into my hand. I looked at her. She smiled softly at me. “That rosary was given to me when I was eight years old. My mother died. The beads are made from the roses from her funeral and dyed red. I’ve worn it every day since then.”

“So why give it to me?”

“Because you are, in many ways, as I was as a young woman. Rebellious. Ravenous in your pursuit for higher knowledge. You have a mind of your own, something not valued in women when I was your age. And now, it is women with minds of their own who truly succeed in the world, no matter how hard men try to dim their light. You’re lucky that you have that,” she coughed into a napkin. I saw blood and it made my stomach turn over. “Your sister, she is a sweet girl but she does as she is told by your father and now by her husband. She has no mind of her own.”

“So your rosary is supposed to represent…what to me?”

She chuckled and then coughed again. “I don’t know. Faith. Faith in yourself. Interpret however you see fit. But I want you to have it.”

I nodded. We talked some more. Nana Ethel told me her story, how she was in her youth, how beautiful she used to be (she was still beautiful in my eyes), and how she had originally refused to get married until she met my grandfather, a hard-assed sailor. Somehow, they made a perfect pair. 

“You are a lucky girl. Your gifts and attitude are accepted now.” She coughed once more into her napkin. “Women like me fought for your right to have a mind of your own. The fight continues, of course. Perhaps the fight will never end.”

“So why the rosary?”

“Because it’s important to me, child. To me, it represents a relationship not just with god but with yourself. A true Christian knows themselves and who they truly are. A child of God.”

“You never seemed to really care much about the Bible.”

“‘Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as elaborate hairstyles and the wearing of gold jewelry or fine clothes. Rather, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.’” She recited 1 Peter 3:3-4. I wouldn’t have known it was from the Bible. I asked my father about what she said later on. “Sure, I didn’t attend Mass on a regular basis. But I know the Bible and I know the Lord. Church isn’t a place, dear, it’s within you.”

I nodded. 

“So practice your faith in private. Outward professions of faith are fine and all but it’s what's inside you, how you practice your faith, that is important and will be viewed highly by God when you, yourself, pass in through the pearly gates of Paradise.”

I reached my hand out to her, thankful for her voice and her insight. And it filled me with great sadness that I didn’t know my Nana Ethel more in life. I regretted not speaking to her more when she was alive and healthy. She had a lot of knowledge to share and I just never listened when I should’ve, instead, valued her insight. 

Later that night, Nana Ethel passed away quietly in her sleep.

I kept the rosary close, resting on my vanity table, and over the next few months, it became a sacred ritual for me to pray over it. Gradually, it transformed into something deeper than mere faith in a Higher Power; it became a symbol of freedom. Nana Ethel found her liberation in death, escaping a world that often marginalized women like her.

To me, it’s beautiful that this rosary, once held so tightly by my grandmother, is now mine to cherish and pray with. Today, as my children play around me, I often turn to the rosary in times of trouble, seeking its comfort. In those moments, I can almost feel Nana’s presence enveloping me, guiding me through the challenges of motherhood. I wish she was here to give me more knowledge and more insight. But I’m thankful for the moments in which I did have her. And even more thankful for those final moments I spent with her in the dying light of her life.