Sunday evening, my sponsor sidled up to me in a way I was accustomed to interpreting as mischievous. Instead, he said, “I have something for you,” and requested I close my eyes as he placed something in my hands.

I was the proud owner of my first rosary.

I didn’t look up the prayers right away. I held it in my hands, or wrapped it around my wrist as I wrote in my journal. Simply holding it gave me peace, the shape of the cross pressed into my palm. Soon after I had a business trip, which altered my scheduled Lenten studies. But I brought it with me, and during down time in the hotel wrote down every prayer, every mystery, every Bible verse associated with praying the rosary.

(A little hotel room studying)

I hadn’t realized how complex it was, carefully writing down each set of mysteries to understand the meaning behind them. Outside the Church, the rosary is often dismissed as repetitious Mary-worship. But the USCCB specifically states it’s based in Scripture, and it’s not about repeating prayers for the sake of repeating them. Like many things in the Church, it’s a means of meditation. It’s praise and worship of God.

It was one evening, long after I should’ve been asleep, that I desired to finally pray. I found a video online—because having a guide seemed better than fumbling over it alone—and listened, praying along at the points where I knew the prayers, listening to this unknown person share Jesus’s baptism, his miracles, and his institution of the Eucharist. It was late, and I was tired, and I slept immediately after seemingly unaffected… but in the morning? Something had changed, and my first thought was not the dread of waking up, or the urge to check my messages. It was an overwhelming sense of peace, the fullness of God before I had the chance to open my eyes.

This came at the right moment, just as things of God often do. I’d been ignoring the looming black cloud over me, the lethargy and disinterest in even the most enjoyable things of life. I had no interest in attending my volunteer meetings; I took longer than usual replying to friends’ messages. It’s an odd feeling, to be filled with such joy in God but drained in everything else. As a result, it was easy to ignore. When I attended the Stations of the Cross on Friday night, I knelt in the pew and broke down sobbing when Jesus was crucified. It was then that I realized I had stumbled into that darkness, again, yet at the same time still at the periphery. This month, this time in my life, should be the happiest. Instead, I’m weighed down by everything—except my God. Thank Him for that.

Today I plan to go hiking. It’s colder than I would like, and there’s not much in terms of mountains in my area. I probably shouldn’t be going alone, but I also should, because this is my personal cleansing. This is between me and Him. And, of course, that rosary is coming with me.

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted, and saves the crushed in spirit.” —Psalm 34:18