As October comes to a close, I’m reflecting on my long history with the rosary.
One of the mysteries of my soul is that whenever I am at a loss for words, I default to Marian prayers. I didn’t grow up reciting the rosary. When I was given a rosary for my First Communion, I broke it trying to fit it over my head. I thought it was a necklace. And then I lost it. I didn’t cultivate a rosary habit until much, much later. So, why is it that when I have no words, the words of Elizabeth come spilling out? Why do I seem to default to praying the Scriptures of the first two joyful mysteries of the rosary?
To be clear, I’m not praying to Mary. I’m asking Mary to pray for me. Just as I might text a friend and beg for prayers in the moment, I know that in the great cloud of witnesses that surrounds me, Mary stands radiant. She is my best prayer warrior and advocate: always available, always tender, always trustworthy. I am Elizabeth (in more ways than one), and she never comes to me alone. She comes bearing Jesus.
In a way, we repeat the first two mysteries with every decade. When we say the words of Gabriel, and Elizabeth, and Mary herself, we are brought to the holy moments of greeting. In the happy exchange between Mary and Elizabeth, we recognize Mary as a channel of grace. Just as Jesus is carried by Mary to sanctify St. John the Baptist, she carries him to me.
When the angel visited Zechariah, he told the old man that his baby boy would be filled with the Holy Spirit from the womb. Young Mary, who is filled to brimming over with the Holy Spirit, calls out a warm hello, and Elizabeth says, “As soon as I heard the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb leaped for joy.” Mary brings the joy of the Lord to Elizabeth, to baby John, and to us. Indeed, the sweet mother of Jesus is so joyful that she breaks into a glorious song of praise.
In the Magnificat, we see a tapestry of Mary’s soul woven with threads of ancient Scripture. A young woman of mature faith, she is so imbued with holy Scripture that her words move in and out of Hannah’s song (1 Sm 1:2-10), leaving the listener to wonder where Mary ends and the Scripture begins. Her thoughts are given voice with the words of God, and she is, quite literally, one with the Word. This is the faith that allowed her to hope.
In hope, she gave her fiat. She believed God’s promises taught to her from the Scriptures, and so she assented in humility when the angel asked her to receive the Holy Spirit. Still, she sees herself only as the handmaiden of God, there to play her part in God’s plan. Full of this hope, Mary answers God’s call to visit Elizabeth and, with prayer and service, bring God himself to her cousin.
Her mission to Elizabeth is one of charity and her song is one of love. Her will perfectly joined with her creator’s, she carries his love with humility and gentleness. She will remain with Our Lord for his lifetime, always a handmaiden, always pointing toward God. We can trust her to take us to him.
As my children were growing up, I noticed that when they were in trouble — when they knew they were in over their heads and they understood that they needed adult wisdom (and possibly chastisement) — they invariably came to me first. But it’s their dad they always knew they would eventually meet in the matter. I am but a conduit to the greater conversation. Maybe this phenomenon explains my own reflex to call upon Mary first. I come to her for good and gentle counsel, but my soul also knows that it is through my most holy Mother that I will best meet my Father.
Foss, whose website is takeupandread.org, writes from Connecticut.
