My life is measured in votive candles.
Imelda graciously handed me the box of little candles for the vigil, her eyes full of compassion. The flickering beneath those little blue holders scattered the darkness that night. I could not have known then that in my penultimate year in Memorial Church, I would dip into that box yet again in hopes of scattering the darkness and dust of what was left of the World Trade Center towers.
A few weeks ago, I was inspired to take up the practice of praying the Rosary. Part of me still cringes at the thought of it and feels a bit dirty, especially during the Salve regina and while reflecting on the last two glorious mysteries. But I can tell that it’s bearing fruit, so I’ll keep at it. “Wisdom is justified by all her children.” I used to have some rather common Protestant misconceptions about the practice. I thought that it was a rather legalistic way of ingratiating oneself to Jesus through his mother. To be fair, I have heard it said by some that Mary is somehow closer to us and more compassionate toward us than Jesus because she was just fully human, not also fully divine. That makes it sound like Marian devotion is necessary to supply some defect in the Incarnation, a heretical belief in all three branches of Christianity.