November 3, 2024
Colleen and I arrived at church and found that our usual seats were reserved for families with children preparing for First Communion. We sat on the opposite side—somewhere we normally wouldn’t sit.
Just before Mass began, a mother arrived with her two boys. The reserved section was full, so they ended up sitting beside us.
I usually pray the Rosary before Mass, and I had brought what I called my “go-to” rosary. I loved everything about it: the weight, the feel, the beads, the St. Benedict medal, and the crucifix. It was special to me.
During the consecration, I experienced what I can only describe as a very clear voice:
“I want you to give your rosary to the little boy.”
My first response was resistance.
“Wait a minute. You can’t mean this rosary. I love this rosary. There’s a gift shop in the back—should I go buy him one?”
The answer was clear:
“No. I want you to give the rosary you love to the boy.”
I felt saddened at the thought of giving it away. Looking back, I recognize how tightly I was holding on to something I loved.
Then came the words that brought me to tears:
“After what I gave up, you can’t give up your rosary?”
I felt called out. But even then, I hesitated.
“Okay, but this rosary is special to me. It has St. Benedict on it. How do I know this prompting is from You?”
At that moment, the sun suddenly broke through the clouds and shone through the window, directly onto where the boy and I were sitting.
Colleen noticed it, too.
“Wow, that suddenly came right on you.”
She was still in the shade, while the light on me was so bright that I struggled to see the altar clearly.
We never normally sat in those seats.
I was overwhelmed. I don’t remember the rest of the consecration clearly. The next thing I remember was standing for the Our Father, asking Colleen for tissues because the tears wouldn’t stop.
She kept asking whether everything was okay. I told her I couldn’t explain yet—trying to talk about it would only make me cry harder.
Giving it away
After Mass, I turned to the mother and asked whether her son was preparing to receive First Communion. She explained that they had been running late and hadn’t been able to sit with the group.
I told her, through tears:
“I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a mistake that you sat here. I feel God told me to give your son my rosary.”
I tried to explain how much I loved it and how I hoped it would do whatever God intended.
The mother began tearing up. The boy looked confused. Colleen was trying to understand what was happening, and I could barely get the words out.
Then the little boy came running up and gave me a big hug.
That broke me down even more.
I walked out of church crying. I hadn’t even gotten his name.
And despite everything I had just experienced, a worry stayed with me: What if my favorite rosary ends up tucked away in the back of a drawer?
I had given it away, but I was still learning to trust.
December 15, 2024
Over the following weeks, I prayed that I would see the mother again. I wanted to explain what had happened so she could understand why I had been so emotional.
Week after week, I didn’t see her.
Before leaving for Mass on December 15, I prayed again:
“Please, God, let her be at this Mass so I can tell her before I go home for Christmas.”
She was there.
As soon as Mass ended, I went over to her.
“I know giving you the rosary might have been a bit of a whirlwind, but I have to tell you my story.”
I explained everything: the prompting, my reluctance, the words that had reached me, and the sunlight.
She was tearing up as she listened. When I finished, she thanked me and asked:
“Are you ready for my story?”
I hadn’t expected that.
She explained that they had been praying the Rosary for the boy’s father. Her son didn’t have a rosary of his own, so he had been using hers. He had been asking her for one.
That alone would have meant so much to me.
But then she said, “Wait, it gets better.”
After leaving church that November day, her son had opened the pouch, looked at the rosary, and exclaimed:
“Mom! It’s the perfect rosary for me! It has tiger’s-eye!”
When she said “tiger’s-eye,” I could hardly believe it.
My rosary had tiger’s-eye beads at the Our Father positions. I knew that because it had been advertised as a tiger’s-eye rosary.
“How does he know about tiger’s-eye?” I asked.
She explained that some children love sports and some love music. Her son loved stones and gems.
Tiger’s-eye was his favorite.
He had recognized it immediately.
It hadn’t ended up in a drawer
His mother told me he took the rosary everywhere. He had shown it to his friends at school and brought it to his first confession the week before.
Then the boy reached into his pocket and pulled it out himself, telling me how much he loved it.
There it was—the rosary I had worried would be forgotten.
I pulled out my new rosary. I had loved the original so much that I had bought another just like it.
I showed him that we now had matching rosaries.
Then I told him:
“Always remember this: that wasn’t a gift from me. That was a gift from God. I believe He asked me to give it to you because He wanted you to have it.”
His mother and I were both crying.
Of all the children who could have sat beside me that morning, this was a boy who had been asking for his own rosary—and whose favorite stone was already part of the one I carried.
For me, those details came together in a deeply personal experience of God’s care.
I had been focused on what I was being asked to give up. Weeks later, I got to see what that gift had meant to someone else.
God is good all the time. And all the time, God is good.