I’m aware that I’m making a complete fool of myself, crying on Aunt Susan’s shoulder in front of everyone. At the moment though, I don’t really care, and taking these long moments to cry gives me time to digest what I’ve just learned without having to respond in any real way.
As I begin to calm down, my thoughts come into focus and I know that I’ve got to say something. I could demand that we go get the bead—right now. It’s what I really want to do, after all, and a big part of me is mentally tallying all of the reasons why it would be okay to do just that.
Then I envision the cutest little girl you can imagine, with light brown hair framing a face filled with big brown eyes and an adorable bow of a mouth. I see her hooked up to wires and tubes, and I hear the beep, beep, beep of machines that are monitoring her breathing and heart rate, and keeping her alive. I imagine myself stomping into the room, a spoiled sixteen-year-old, an overgrown child, compared to the wise young girl in the bed. I see myself holding out my hand, demanding that she give me the bead—a bead that was given to her as a gift, a gift of innocent caring and love, a gift meant to calm her fears and give her hope for healing.
A gift that I can’t possibly take away from this little girl.
Even while recognizing that, I still grasp at straws. Maybe we could stay until Monday, and get it after her surgery? I pose the question to myself.
No. She will need time to heal. Weeks, maybe even months. We don’t even know what’s wrong with her. Says my kinder, gentler side.
Maybe we could have a new one made, just like the other one, and give that to her? My childish, demanding side says—my I-want-what-I-want-and-I-want-it-now side.
No, it just wouldn’t be the same, and you know it. There’s that nobler side of me again.
The tears are gone now, and Aunt Susan releases me from her embrace, sitting back on her knees. She looks at me with concern and love.
I give her a watery smile, wiping my eyes with my sweatshirt sleeve. “It’s okay.” I manage to say. Then, “I could use a few minutes alone, though. Is it okay if I take a walk?”
Aunt Susan gives my forearms a gentle squeeze. “Of course, sweetie.”
Melanie adds in a quiet voice, “The neighborhood’s just a big loop. If you stay on this main street, you’ll find your way back, no problem.”
When I stand to leave, Hannah comes scampering into the room, holding a large piece of paper in her little hands. I hadn’t even realized that she had left us when we sat down in the living room, but I’m guessing she must have gone to finish that art project. Splashes of silver and yellow have been added to the blue stains on her hands, and her shirt has a rather large splotch of green spilt down the front. When she sees me watching her, she slows to a walk, and casts her eyes at the floor. She approaches and gives me her paper, which I now see is soaked in paint.
Hannah glances up at me briefly, before looking at her feet again. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles.
I study the painting by this little four-year-old artist. I recognize the blue sky, with a bright shining sun, and green grass below. There’s a figure on the left hand side of the painting, wearing a blue gown, with what appears to be blue hair. On the right hand side, there are three stick figures, one tall, the other two smaller, all holding hands. They’re wearing pink skirts, so they must all be girls. The taller one stands in the middle, with the two smaller ones on either side, each holding a circle—a necklace—in their free hand. One of the necklaces bears a single bead. The other bears two.
I sit back down in my seat on the sofa and study the painting. A tear drops onto the paper. “It’s beautiful,” I whisper, and give the little girl my best, watery smile.
She leans on my knee and begins to point out the figures. “That’s me, and that’s Tara,” she says, pointing first to the girl with brown hair, then to the one with blond. Now, pointing to the taller figure, she says, “That’s you. I couldn’t finish it till I saw you to see what color your hair was.” She looks at my blue jeans and blue sweatshirt and says, “I already painted the skirt,” clearly disappointed by her lack of realism.
Next she points to the woman dressed in blue. “That’s the Blessed Mother,” she says, proudly. “She was always with me at the hospital, after Granddaddy gave me the necklace.”
Startled, I look up at her mom. I hadn’t known they were Catholic. Melanie’s eyes have teared up, and she fingers the cross at her neck. She shakes her head and whispers, “We’re not Catholic.” She clears her throat and says more clearly, “I don’t know where it all came from, but after Dad gave her the beads, she started talking about a woman, dressed in blue, who was with her at the hospital, whenever we couldn’t be there, and sometimes even when we were. Then one day, she started calling her ‘the Blessed Mother.’ It didn’t make sense, until Dad told me where the beads had actually come from ...” she shakes her head in disbelief. “It still doesn’t make sense, really, does it?” she whispers.
I shake my head, and smile at Hannah. “I love it,” I tell her. I feel the tears coming on again, and I pull Hannah into a hug. She comes to me willingly, and puts her arms around my shoulders as I bury my face in her curly ringlets. “Thank you,” I whisper into her hair.
Hannah nods her head and squeezes me tightly.
After several moments, Hannah sits on my lap and snuggles into my chest. All thoughts of a walk leave me for the time being, and I simply enjoy the warmth of this sweet, loving, innocent child. I think of all that she’s been through in such a short life, and I wish that I could give her more than just this nearness.
Finally, Hannah looks up at me. “My mommy says that your mommy is sick.” I nod my head. “I gave her bead to Tara, but I still have two beads left. I want to give your mommy one of them.”
“It’s okay, Hannah. I have one I can give my mom. I want you to keep both of those. Who knows? You may meet another child who needs one of the beads.”
Hannah looks relieved, and looks up at me with a blinding smile. “Okay. ’Cause there is a boy I met, Leo. Leo starts with L, right?”
“That’s right,” I say encouragingly.
“My other bead has an L on it, so I thought maybe I could give it to him.”
“I think that would be wonderful, Hannah.”
Having gained my approval for her plan, Hannah jumps from my lap and runs off to play, or perhaps to create another painting. The room is silent for a moment.
“I think I’ll take that walk now, if it’s okay?” I ask.
Melanie nods her head, and Aunt Susan responds, “Of course, hon. Don’t be gone too long, though, okay?”
Walking out the front door, I revel in the feel of the warm air, grateful for the break from the still-cold early spring in Indiana. I turn right and follow the main street, as Melanie had advised. Feeling an unfamiliar bulk in my jeans pocket, I realize that my rosary is still there, where I shoved it after we prayed at the beginning of our drive, for safe travels. I pull it out and enjoy the feel of the beads in my fingers. I run my thumb over Christ’s body, on the crucifix, and find myself beginning the prayer.
Half an hour later, I realize that I’m a few houses down from Melanie and Hannah’s home. I’ve finished the Rosary, and have been lost in thought for several minutes. Once again, the prayer has left me feeling much calmer, and I’m able to reason through the events of the day—and even the past few weeks.
I realize now that I need to trust in God that my mom will get better. That, while the beads do seem to provide some special grace, like Uncle Joseph said, they are not the only way that a person can be helped or healed. My mom can be helped through my prayers, through my faith, and through the prayers of others.
In fact, I realize, perhaps just hearing the stories of healings that have taken place will be helpful to Mom. Knowing that Grandma’s death does not appear to have been in vain, but instead that her prayers—for Emma, Hannah, and James—have been answered. And her prayers for us are being answered, as well.
As I walk, I think about these people whom I have met in the past few weeks, and I thank God that they’ve come into my life. Each of their stories has become very important to me, and I have felt an extraordinary connection with Hannah, Emma and James, and even Chelsea, Beth, and Mr. Billings. It’s as though all of us whose lives have been touched by these very special beads now possess a unique bond with each other.
I thank God for the lives that he has saved, for the miraculous grace flowing forth from these beads, through the prayers and intercession of the Blessed Mother and, presumably, my grandmother.
I think of my own faith and prayer life. Five weeks ago, even though I attended Catholic school and used to go to Mass every Sunday, God was really just an empty idea, floating out there as some reassurance that a higher being did exist. Today, God has become central to my existence, Christ has become present to me as my savior, and his Blessed Mother has become the key to growing in my friendship with him.
I remember the dream I had when this all began. The field, with the plants trying to hold me down, the sea of beads, and being carried across it to arrive near Grandma and the woman, whom I now know to be the Blessed Mother. That sea of beads must surely be each prayer that Grandma prayed for me and for the members of our family. Those prayers held so much power, that they have, indeed, delivered me at the feet of a heavenly mother I never knew.
I stop walking, and gaze at the rosary in my hand. Rolling a bead between my thumb and forefinger, it hits me.
These beads do possess a special power. But it’s not magic, and it’s not the stuff of some sci-fi story. The power of a single bead lies entirely in the power of a single prayer. And every single prayer holds awesome power—the power of God, who listens, and heals, and loves.
A single bead. A single prayer. Unlimited grace and possibilities.