Rosary

“Would it be too much trouble to have you open this case? I’d like to see the rosaries.”
“That case?” the dealer asked. “Let me get the key.”
I stood wondering if I seemed foolish, if she thought I had a strange fetish or something. Perhaps it’s my upbringing, third generation Pentecostal, about as protestant as they come. When my family hears about my experiences with ancient Christian spirituality, they often wonder if I’m becoming Catholic. I bounced on the balls of my feet nervously looking at other items.
I had been agitated walking around the expansive Bay City Antique Center. Dueling goals prodded me. One – to get out of earshot of the loud woman at the front counter, forced me to move quickly, eyes flitting from case to case looking for my treasure. This time, my mood was not helped by booth after booth, room after room, floor after floor devoid of the object of my search. They were full of Americana, kitsch, and collectables.
Occasionally something would catch my eye. A deco counter that one day graced a thirties bar, or theater back wall struck me in one room. A pince-nez in a case turned out to be no where near my prescription. A set of golf clubs set me imagining myself on the course in knickerbockers and argyles. When I’d seen enough, and I’d had enough of my mood, I asked to see the rosaries.
“This case is the worst in the shop,” the dealer returned.
I apologized and pointed to the one I wanted to see. The tag said it was “well used,” that was what I valued: the experience, the sensual devotion, and the passion of another’s life for their God worn into wooden beads.
Gingerly, lovingly, I guided the beads from the case. As I touched a wooden bead, I felt connected spiritually to the heart and devotion of the Holy Church Universal. The emptiness that had marked my day – made me grumpy, agitated – was filled with joy, a rushing joy, a silent river. My heart began to thump. Through the emotion and vibration, I was able only to count to seven.
“Why are there so few beads between the stations of the cross?” the dealer asked.
I had only just processed the number and whispered, “It’s Anglican, they have weeks instead of decades.”
I’d never seen an Anglican rosary in person, though it is an Anglican prayer I pray with my rosary.
I left in a new spirit. I didn’t buy it.
“I can’t spend that much with out talking to my wife,” I said. Just touching it and the discovery was enough.