I step out boldly, the chilly air swiftly stinging the sleep from my eyes, and begin to mumble the familiar prayers. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty…” Somewhere in the Creed I sort of lose my place. Then I shake my groggy head and try again to focus. Paying attention is not my strong suit this early in the morning.
I begin the first Sorrowful Mystery, the Agony in the Garden. But I don’t make it past the Our Father before start thinking about an email I received from a friend last night. He sounded discouraged about his youth ministry kids. So I pray for them, that they might start taking an interest in their faith. And I pray for him, that he might have the patience and determination to guide them. And then… oh, where was I? I’m at the eighth bead in the decade and I haven’t thought about Jesus’s agony at all. In the last few prayers I quickly meditate on His sorrow, His pain, and His admonition to the Apostles: “Can you not watch one hour with Me?” And I wince inwardly. I’m not doing so well in that watching department.
The Scourging at the Pillar. “Hail Mary, full of grace,” I whisper, and my breath makes white swirls of fog in front of me. “The Lord is with thee.” Though Pilate could find no cause in Him, he ordered Jesus to be scourged to satisfy the Pharisees. “Blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus….” They beat Jesus until His precious blood ran in rivers down His back…
My steps slow as I contemplate His pain, my eyes seemingly on the pavement before me, but vividly focused on the images in my mind. Then a small bird flits into my view, and I look up. The autumnal beauty all around me is remarkable. The brilliant reds and yellows of the maples, and some orange trees I don’t know, all blended together in a cacophony of color rampant along the street’s edge. For a moment I am transfixed by the awaking world around me. The sun is just peeking up over the trees, and all is bathed in a crisp and clear light. God, what wonderful works You have created!
I stop in the street. Where was I? I look down at my fingers, which have moved methodically over the beads while I was lost in contemplation. Halfway through the third decade! What was the mystery I was supposed to be meditating on? Oh, yes, the Crowing with Thorns. It is the mystery that contains the most pathos for me — for here not only is Jesus abused and mistreated, but He is denied His dignity even as a person, with no thought at all for His dignity as the Son of God. He was mocked and humiliated, and took it all without a word. My thoughts turn to my own prideful behavior the day before, and I can feel my cheeks turning scarlet, but not from the cold wind. I have a long way to go in my walk in His footsteps.
The Carrying of the Cross. This mystery is the most vivid to me. In my mind’s eye I can almost see Jesus trudging beside me, the crown of thorns on His head, the faded rag about His shoulders, stooping under the weight of His Cross. No, not stooping exactly, , nor trudging either. It’s as though He is keeping pace with my brisk step, and looking me in the eye. As I meet His gaze I see that He is suffering, but there is something else, something beyond compare that He is happy about. I’m mystified! Then I see that it is not the heavy Cross of Calvary that He bears, but a smaller, lighter one. One that is resting on my shoulders as well. He is carrying my cross! And behind us trail a host of others, all following His lead, all praying with us — saints and angels and people of every kind. Then I come to the last bead, and the image fades from my imagination. But I am left with a profound sense that I am not alone in my chilly morning ramble.
The final mystery, Jesus’s Death on the Cross. I contemplate His final hours of agony. But somewhere in the middle I am again lost in my own thoughts, and only come back to contemplation at the second to last “Hail Mary.” I am tempted to kneel, as one would at the twelfth Station of the Cross, right there in the street. But my humility is not so far advanced, so instead I stop and bow my head to finish my prayers. When I look up, my glance tells me I’m near the rose garden in the park, and my eyes light on a single red rose, probably the last of the season.
On impulse, I dart over and bend down to smell it. A lovely fragrance still emanates from the weak petals. It is my first gift from God of the day. But then I begin to think, perhaps isn’t it the second? After all, the image of Christ carrying my cross was so beautiful and so vivid it must have come from Him. And weren’t there other gifts — the rapture of the morning in all its autumn glory, and the faith of my friend, and the mere fact that I am alive today at all?
I raise my eyes to heaven. “Pray for us, O holy Mother of God, that we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ. Amen.” And it is already a beautiful day.
© Copyright 2005 Catholic Exchange
Pamela Acker holds a BA in biology and recently embarked on a career in genetics. Her homeschool education included extensive readings in Catholic doctrine, and she continues to devote much of her free time to improving her understanding of theology and helping others understand their faith. Her email address is pjacker1s@yahoo.com.
