Decades and Decades

Elizabeth Phillips

As summer comes to a close, and we say goodbye to lazy days and summer vacations, I think back to the many memories of our annual family vacation to 30A (long before it was marketed at 30A). Back then, we called it Seagrove Beach. My brother, sister, and usually a couple of cousins packed into the way-back of our enormous ‘67 Pontiac station wagon (not a seatbelt in sight) before sunrise to begin our journey south.

It was always hot. The air conditioner—when it felt like it was working—barely cooled the front seats. We ate the candy we had planned to last the whole week before we reached the Alabama state line. Comic books and, very rarely, a summer reading book helped pass some of the time. Every so often, Mom would pass back a lukewarm bologna and cheese sandwich to keep us quiet.

But to be honest, we didn’t really mind the heat, the cramped conditions, or even the low-quality AM radio that struggled to pick up stations as we blew down I-65. We were too excited about the seemingly endless days of sand and sea awaiting us.

What we did mind—and even dreaded—was the inescapable moment when Dad’s low voice would intone: “Time to say the rosary.”

The chorus of “Daaaaddddd . . .uggghhh” filled the car. But no one had the actual courage to challenge him. We dutifully pulled out the plastic beads we had gotten at school and began to half-heartedly repeat “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.” I’d love to say we spent the time meditating on the mysteries of our Lord’s life and passion. But, of course, we didn’t. Mostly we rolled our eyes in utter despair or someone would make a funny noise to elicit laughter that would get the rest of us in trouble. Those five decades seemed to last forever.

Dad, who, unlike the rest of us, did meditate deeply on the mysteries, sometimes got so rapt that Mom would have to grab the wheel to keep the Pontiac from cruising into the median. Finally, we’d get to the “Hail Holy Queen,” and we knew we were within striking distance of freedom to get back to our playing cards and Mad Magazines.

Now, many decades later, I see that my future love of the rosary started on those trips. Like a seed that is planted and takes a long while to germinate, it took me some decades to grow and mature enough to choose to say the rosary on my own. I can look back and see that the rosary has gotten me through every decade of my life—high school angst, college homesickness, difficult new jobs, marriage, children, and loss of loved ones. Through it all, the rosary has never left me, and the Blessed Mother has used it as a kind of lead wire to bring me closer to her Son.

So, even when our children doth protest, never give up on planting the seeds of our Catholic faith. You never know when it when or where it will bloom. Thank you, Mom and Dad.

Elizabeth Phillips