Even when you pray in front of abortion clinics, you fall into routines. Last winter, and deep into spring, I prayed the Rosary across from Manhattan’s Planned Parenthood in Lower Manhattan in the mornings. The schedule for “hazardous waste” pick-up was a little before 9 a.m. on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.
When things started opening up again — there was never a halt to abortions, even as we claimed to be working to save all lives — I regularly found myself there in the afternoon. A shock fell over me on a recent Friday around 1 p.m. when the truck showed up. Two men took their time rearranging boxes from prior spots — I have no idea if they, too, were from abortion clinics, but they looked eerily familiar. One went into the clinic with empty boxes, only to come out with nine boxes. To give you perspective, two of these boxes stacked up are taller than I, and I’m 5-foot-4. This is the stuff of weeping, and yet, people pass by as if it’s another Amazon delivery.
On the next Monday morning, I was mad. I was feeling overwhelmed about the evil that seems to reign as a good in the destructive distortions of our culture of death here in America, a near half-century into legal abortion. It’s utterly dehumanizing.
This took place as we were entering the second half of October, the month dedicated to the Rosary. Without being conscious about the time of year, I felt Mary gently, yet firmly, pulling me out of the lie that evil reigns. Her son Jesus reigns! I know this. But that morning she helped me to feel it, to know it as the most important reality of our lives.
The Rosary truly is a ladder to heaven. And the genius gift of the Rosary is the meditation on the life of Jesus with all of its joys, sorrows, glory and light. We need it all. We need to know him in all of the mysteries of his life, death and resurrection.
St. Patrick’s Cathedral in midtown — we call it “America’s parish church” — recently restored its pre-COVID Mass schedule. I don’t know if we’ll ever get the same daily commuting Mass crowds in the morning, midday and evening, but in the before time, Father Donald Haggerty would give them mini-retreats during their lunch breaks, or whenever they encountered him at Mass. The Catholic kids at National Review seemed to glow after hearing his four-minute intense wisdom.
One day, probably a Marian feast, he talked about the importance of the Rosary, not just daily, but constantly. He warned against making the perfect the enemy of the good. One decade prayed is one decade that wouldn’t otherwise be prayed.
On my better days, the Rosary is like the background music to my day. A spare moment? Don’t go to the phone (I often do), pray a Hail Mary.
I understand that when an exorcist walks into a room with demons, Mary always shows up. And that’s the secret weapon. Jesus gives us his mother as a reminder of who truly reigns.
A few years ago, I was standing by the entrance of a congressional office building before a religious freedom event at which I was speaking. I noticed many men taking a Rosary out of their pocket as they went through the airport-like security. One of the Capitol Police officers told me this was a common occurrence.
In a recent column, Cardinal Timothy Dolan of New York said that while that’s great, that a Rosary might be hanging from your car window or in your purse or pocket — how about getting it in your hands to pray?
I have one of those Rosary rings, and that’s my best line of defense against grabbing for the phone. Touch it and get praying. Sometimes, I don’t know what mystery I’m praying, I’m just seeking union on that ladder of prayer to Jesus through Mary. Let us pray, every month of the year, every day of our lives. Don’t hit refresh, hit the beads!
Kathryn Jean Lopez is a senior fellow at the National Review Institute and editor-at-large of National Review.
