I remember this one time,
at band camp, when I was about four, my parents just wouldn’t stop fighting.
We lived in The Valley, and my grandparents (my two favorite people in the whole world, at the time) lived less than one mile away. They came over often and vice versa. I remember the fighting being so bad, that I guess it was mom that called my grandparents and told them to come take my sister and I away from the situation.
They got there, my grandmother, in all her motherly instinct, came immediately to calm my sister and I’s cries. Grandpa, well, he was a bit more like my dad, so he had to get in on the action. I’ve heard stories about how mean of a person he was to his family members, but that’s just not the same man I knew. The grandpa I knew, loved to hold our hands in the store, enjoyed telling all his Knights of Columbus buddies about the apple’s of his eyes, looked forward to sharing a bowl of popcorn with us late at night while watching The Golden Girls or Mr. Belvedere, or even enjoyed working in the yard together a bit more than he led on.
So, grandpa tried to talk to mom and dad and tried to pray the rosary with them. My grandparents were extreme Catholics who attended church more often than most people ate, so it seemed the only thing that got them through any times at all, was praying the rosary. Maybe that’s how their marriage lasted 52+ years before he passed.
I don’t know what ever happened that day, because if I remember correctly (and at the age of four, that’s a bit tough), we ended up going to my grandparents house and staying the night. I don’t know if mom and dad continued to fight, but I’m pretty sure my grandpa was able to smooth things over. At least for that night.
Moral: Today, I prayed the rosary, and thought of all the times I prayed with my grandparents. It’ll help me. I’ve seen it’s power. :-)