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Restless Rosaries

Shamelessly stolen from Fr. Z.

Lying in bed last night, I couldn’t go to sleep. Whether it was because of the constant barrage of social media I’d consumed about McCarrick and the Pennsylvania grand jury report, because I’d otherwise laid too much on my plate over the past couple weeks, or a combination of factors, I was staring wide-eyed at the ceililng.

I picked up my Rosary and began to pray. Now that is a sure-fire way to raise the ire of the enemy, as I’m sure that proud creature hates to see anyone pick up that weapon. It is like garlic to a vampire. Like a blessed stake to the heart. Imagine, before the end of the second decade, I was nodding off.

“Gotosleepgotosleepgotosleeplittledarling...” he must have been screeching under his foul breath.

I was able to finish the Glorious Mysteries before drifting off. Mary or my Guardian Angel, qui custos es mei, or whomever had my back was not going to give me peace until I had given Our Lady her due. And that makes me happy. 

You should try it. I wrote the following post seven or so years ago. May it encourage you to … well, you know.

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