The Rosary Beads

The string barely holds the large beads together, and yet, the large, ornate cross still hangs, heavy against my knuckles
Christ holds the patina of age and mystery, as the large oval beads are slid through my fingers
On string that might have been new in the 60's.
In prayer, in sorrow, in anger, in grief, fingers clutch desperately at bits of wood, metal and string
A rosary that once graced a monk in a habit
"Bring me your tired, your poor your oppressed" may be an accidental motto in life
But as I hold the large, heavy rosary, a little voice, one heard barely, speaks:
"You have faith. And your faith will make you whole".
A string of old beads and a crucifix, a symbol of torture, a symbol of faith in adversity, looks so large against my girlish hands, a crucifix made for a monk, for a girl who tends to live like a monk...

"Your faith will make you whole"
"I am not worthy..." I begin, "But... just say the word, and I shall become whole."
What am I praying for? I begin to wonder as my tendency to over-think comes through.
Relief from recent illness piled upon the chronic illnesses?
Relief for the pain I see so often in others?
Of anger and fear and hatred, and gratitude, too, for living in two separate worlds--- and my inability to completely fit, my discomfort, my tendency to forever swim upstream, and feeling the demons at my heels? My gratitude, my sense of having been blessed, at the same time?
"My child" comes the voice very insistently... "You cannot always stay strong. You have to bend before you break, you have to learn to lean sometime. I give you fire, I give you what you need to teach you. Fire and pressure make a beautiful diamond over time."
And the old rosary glides between my knuckles, the crucifix tap, tap, tapping against the bones.