A Sweet Lesson
I printed out, on a half page each, copies of a rosary graphic, which illustrated a full set of rosary beads and showed when to say which prayers. Then I counted out pieces of candy for the prayers—mini M&Ms for the Aves, regular ones for the Paters, and one candy corn for the Apostles’ Creed. The pieces and the printout went into zipper sandwich bags, one for each kid present, and I saved some for the ones who weren’t. The idea was to follow along on the diagram, laying a piece of candy on each bead or piece on the paper as we prayed, and at the end we'd eat the candy. So, the candy corn with its “thorn” shape would take the place on the crucifix, and the prayers that don’t have beads (Glory Be, Fatima prayer) didn’t have a candy. I would have liked to think up something to use for the Salve at the end, but I didn’t have anything on hand that made sense. I figured that “done" is better than “perfect.”
So we began. I didn’t expect it to go perfectly smoothly, which was undoubtedly an opening for grace from the beginning. I wasn’t a super stickler for my mini M&M count, so there were at least 53 in each bag but some got maybe 54, or 55, or so. When one person plunged on into eating their candy before I finished my explanation or even handed them out, I didn’t blink (much). I let the preschooler follow along or not, as long as she behaved quietly.
It still wasn’t enough. Two began early to bicker about whether they were “stealing” pieces that had accidentally been dropped, and whether someone had more than others. One decided to get lively and pelt an M&M or two at—I don’t know whom, or what—before we really got started, and didn’t appreciate being reprimanded. One eventually dissolved into tears, because her M&Ms were too big to fit the whole line on the printed beads. One or two didn’t even want to be there, and their attitude showed it.
It was probably into the second decade that I had the insight—this must be what we look like as God tries, so patiently and lovingly, to lead us to Him.
Parenting is full of instances of this particular insight. Full, full, full. I am convinced that this is why God brings us into existence within families. The comedian Jeff Allen has a line that says that God must have looked down and said, “Let’s see how they like it to create someone in their image who denies their existence.” It’s funny because it’s so painfully true. We know the family is a school of love. Every parent knows that jolting rush of love for their children that gives us a glimmer of how much God loves us. But it’s also a wealth of lessons in how blind and broken we are, even so.
We persevered. In the midst of that insight, when I was tempted to throw up my hands and give it up, I decided instead to model patience. Everyone at the table participated or was included, however begrudgingly for some. And one or two quiet ones made no trouble at all, but obligingly went along with me in their prayers.
And it was enough.
At the end of it we had prayed a Rosary together, and had a little treat that soothed everyone’s mood. I know, if for no other reason than because my grown children tell me so, that they will remember this—probably even for the right reasons. They will remember something of the Rosary, and the stories of Jesus’ life and mission that it tells. They will remember praying as a family. They will remember the sweetness of God’s grace that prayer brings. They will, maybe, remember Mom’s forbearance this time when things weren’t perfect.
But I will remember, too. I will remember God’s patience in dealing with his child, even through my resistance to his instruction, my petulance in wanting my own way, my reluctant efforts to turn to Him. I will remember how God takes whatever I offer and turns it into something sweet and good.
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