It's a perennial source of relaxation and affirmation. Everyone in my family has one somewhere in a dresser drawer, in a box in the attic, or at least at the bottom of a pocket. Having several lying about the house while I was growing up as ordinary as having a TV in the living room.

Yet, as I watched my teenage nephew and niece practice their faith, I notice its absence. Today, it seems to be a tradition reserved for older generations.

"It," of course, is the rosary. In our house, the Rosary always rang in the changes - a birth, a death, a crisis or its resolution. Anything important was punctuated by a rustling of beads and a bending of knees. A solemn request from Mom or Dad met little resistance - a Rosary meant things were serious, that was it. At first, there was usually fidgeting and elbowing among my five brothers and me, but it usually ended gracefully with that deep hum of united voices, the giggles spent, and a sense of participating in a family event that brought peace and a tangible sense of the divine into our ordinary lives. Afterward, we all went back to whatever we were doing, and the rosaries got put away, but a transition had been marked, an inner bonding made.

As a girl, I usually preferred the crystal rosaries that came in bright colors - emerald greens and sherbet pinks - that were presents from a faraway godparent or relative. A colorful wooden rosary that was a pre school gift remained wound around my bedpost until I left for college, while my favorite beads were made from crushed rose petals that wafted a heady scent as they were warmed by hands.

Today a rosary still occupies a place in my room, only now it lies on my night table, and the color is no longer the criterion for its appeal. Its presence in my daily life is renewing and affirming - both privately and when shared with others.

One friend and I made a standing Saturday morning date once a month to say the Rosary and have coffee. Like those childhood gatherings, at first we both got the giggles, experiencing the awkwardness of praying together, but soon it became a time for relaxation and inspiration. Now that we live a county apart and work takes up much of our weekends, the absence of that routine shows us what a treasure those get-togethers were.

Despite being a veteran of Catholic education and having a lifelong fascination with faith, deciding to once again practice the Rosary everyday meant just that. Practice. It doesn't mean I always enjoy saying the Rosary, as I would a good movie or a gourmet meal, but it is no less nourishing or beautiful.

Over the years, it has become a sort of vitamin for my ego that wards off infections of spiritual indifference. It balances bad times, enhances good ones. It's not a requirement, as in childhood, or just for crisis, when prayer seems so natural to all of us.

Nor is it something to feel smug about, since I often forget and must recommit to it on a daily basis. It's a small patch of time that becomes a reconnection to where I've been as much as a road map to where I wish to be heading. And when my niece visits and invariably starts playing with my rosary, it makes me smile at our ageless human hunger for spiritual practices. I think I'll give her a sapphire blue one, if I can't find one with real rose petals.

Thank you dearest Mother for the gift of a healthy baby boy.

Eulalia, NY 

My sincere thanks to Mary Help of Christians for granting my son a job and for numerous other favors received.  Mrs. C. Pereira, TX

Thank you dear Mother Mary, Don Bosco and St. Dominic Savio for blessing me with good health, a loving family and now our very own home.  Frank, FL