The Parallel Rosary: A Mother’s Faith

Dear Diary, The Parallel Rosary: A Mother’s Faith

August 12, 2024.

Growing up in a Nigerian household, certain rules were as unbreakable as the laws of nature. And in our home, with the greatest dictator of all time as our mother, the most unyielding of these rules was the nightly rosary. My siblings and I—four rambunctious children with endless energy—would groan in unison when the clock struck 8 PM, signaling the time for our daily rosary. It wasn’t that we didn’t love our faith or appreciate our mother’s devotion—no, like most children, we simply had other ideas of how to spend our evenings and were bored with the whole Hail Mary-Holy Mary routine.

Our mother, however, was a force to be reckoned with. A Nigerian mother, as we quickly learned, is not one to be swayed by the whims of her children. We grew up knowing our feelings didn’t matter when it came to certain principles, and prayer was at the top of the list. In fact, on our fridge, there hung my mother’s Ten Commandments (a tale for another day), and one of those commandments read: “I don’t care what you are being taught in school; in this house, I am Absolute.” Imagine that? With a smile that could be as sweet as honey or as fierce as a storm, our mother left us confused more times than I can count. But beneath that mixed-method motherhood was a heart full of love, determined to instill in us the beauty of prayer, whether we liked it or not. To this day, it amuses me because our father deliberately stayed out of my mother’s way and her Ten Commandments. He had just one immutable rule: “Your mum is right.”

One evening, after an especially dramatic round of protests and sighs, she sat us down and introduced us to something new. “We’re going to do something different tonight,” she said, her eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint. “We’re going to do a Parallel Rosary.”

By the way, we also had Commandment Number 9—parallel beatings. It didn’t matter who did what was wrong; we all received adequate corporal punishment according to our age group. To avoid these parallel punishments, we developed a check-and-balance system among ourselves. I was the class captain of that department, ensuring my brother did the right thing so I could avoid punishment at all costs.

So, when our mischievous mother mentioned the “Parallel Rosary,” we looked at her, puzzled—not knowing if she intended to punish Jesus and Mary in some new way. I mean, in our collective sign language we were like, “mummy, don’t you have limits?”

What on earth was a Parallel Rosary? We wondered but didn’t dare voice it to the General-Commandant that was our mother. Seeing the confusion brewing in our throats, she began to explain.

“You know how each rosary has mysteries—the Joyful, the Sorrowful, the Glorious, and now the Luminous?” she asked. We nodded reluctantly, half-listening. “Well, tonight, we’re going to take the first decade of each mystery and piece them together into a story. Only this time, we’ll ensure the Luminous Mystery comes after the Joyful Mystery.”

The math didn’t add up, but hey, this was our mother—she is never wrong.

A story? There was a sigh of relief—at least this General-Commandant wasn’t warring against heaven; we weren’t in trouble after all. Yes, mum, please speak—your servants are listening.

She started with the Joyful Mystery. “Imagine Mary, a young girl, just living her life when suddenly an angel appears to her… whooshhhhh… telling her she would be a mother. But here’s where it gets interesting—right! As young as she was, she couldn’t have fully understood what the angel said, but obedient as a lamb, she said, ‘I am the handmaid of the Lord; let what you have said be done to me.'”

And just like that, we were hooked. Our mother’s voice was soft yet commanding, and the images she painted were more vivid than anything our young minds could conjure on their own.

“After the angel appeared,” she continued, “the baby she was to have had grown up. He’s now very big, and Jesus begins His ministry. He was so humble, he even allowed his cousin, whom He met in Elizabeth’s womb, to baptize him at the River Jordan—splish-splash, dip-splash-dip—and this time, God came down like a dove right on His head and said, ‘This is my beloved Son; listen to Him.’ But even after all this, in the Garden of Gethsemane, He prayed so fervently for us that His sweat became like drops of blood. Can you feel His sorrow when we do the wrong thing?”

While we were still caught up in the emotion of it all, she’d throw in the Resurrection story, with a script worthy of Marvel Comics superheroes. But this time, she combined all the superpowers you could possibly imagine into Jesus. She told the tale of how “up from the grave He arose,” with the earth shaking, stones crumbling, and angels singing. Trust me, to this day, none of us in my house has a superhero other than Jesus. She outdid the fantasy image of superheroes and permanently placed Jesus at the top. Her new victims are my nieces—one of them recently challenged her father, my brother, on who was the strongest in their home. When my brother boasted that he was the strongest, my five-year-old niece humbled him: “Who are you? Are you as strong as Jesus, who tore out the earth to rise?” My brother was schooled and conceded to his daughter because we all had passed through that rite of passage—and truly, who is stronger?

And then, just when we thought we couldn’t be more captivated, she would tickle us with, “We humbly pray after each decade of the parallel mysteries!” Oh, with such joy and excitement, we would be screaming out loud, “OUR FATHEERRRRR, WHO ART IN HEAVENNNN…(this part was sweetest when someone has just lost a front tooth)” with the subsequent ten Hail Marys.

As swiftly as she told the first mystery, she would paint the second—how Mary visited Elizabeth, using the opening line of Elizabeth, “The child in my womb leapt for joy.” My best part was how she painted Jesus as the GREATEST SHOWMAN of all time. She would depict how He performed His first miracle in Cana at His mother’s bidding at the wedding (low-key threatening us never to turn down any of her requests) and sometimes dramatically recounting other miracles, like how Jesus walked on water or fed the five thousand, just to keep us engaged.

Then, suddenly, she would make us sober with, “Just as Jesus is celebrating with His friends at the wedding,” softening her voice as she segued into the scourging at the hands of Pontius Pilate. We would all lean in, intrigued, giggling, and sometimes offering parts of the story ourselves in one breath, we took the golden opportunity to confess the wrongs we had committed that day in another breath—she’d pretend as if she didn’t hear, quickly we would ask Jesus for forgiveness, knowing she couldn’t veto Him (this is a story for another day).

The fifth mystery was always my favorite. This was where she painted the story of finding Jesus in the temple and made us feel as if we, too, were mini-tabernacles carrying Jesus within us, ensuring others didn’t have to go searching for Him because we are Christlike. She would continue with the offering of Jesus’ life in death and then crown it with the icing on the cake—Mary, the August Queen of Heaven. At this point, my mother would break into a dance that could rival the atilogu, explaining Mary as the Daughter, Mother, and Spouse. We didn’t need to question any Catholic doctrines—Mummy had said it, and so it was absolute!

The remaining mysteries were just as magical. We picked up where we left off, threading together moments from the life of Jesus and Mary, each of us adding our own little embellishments, laughing at the funny parts, and growing quiet at the solemn moments. It was like putting together a puzzle, each piece fitting perfectly into the next until the whole picture was clear. We were hooked—the vivid imagery she painted was my favorite part of growing up.

By the time we reached the final “Amen,” we weren’t just ready for bed—we were ready for dreams filled with angels, miracles, and the warmth of our mother’s love. I particularly never had to dream as I lived my dreams. So I slept full and content, but you see that last child of my mother—OMG!!! Abimbola was blessed with an imaginative brain that was both wonderful and quite annoying—we almost ganged up against her like Joseph’s brothers did in the Bible. Only this time, Jacob was not our father; Hitler is our mother, and she didn’t make the coat of many colours for anybody.😂

I especially remember those days as we sat in silence. No night rosary was the same as the other. She was versatile in how she recounted the same mysteries, and it wasn’t just a story—it was the story of Jesus and Mary’s lives, pieced together in a way that made it feel alive. To us, it was real. We saw the joy, sorrow, light, and glory, all intertwined—and in the process, we gained amnesty for the wrongs we had done. It was my mother’s love story to us.

As we grew older, the nightly rosary remained a constant in our lives, but so did the stories. Each night, we would come together as a family from different locations, recalling the mysteries into tales that brought us closer to our faith and to each other. The Parallel Rosary became more than just a way to pray; it is a testament to our mother’s creativity, her love, and her unwavering belief that a family that prays together truly does stay together.

Finally, living thousands of miles away, when I am sad or lonely during prayer times, I remember her smile as she looked at our wide eyes, as we shrieked while screaming the Our Father and ten Hail Marys, and what a privilege it is to have a mother who is still a dictator and our teacher. She was our first catechist. She didn’t know much, but the little she knew, she engraved right into our thick skulls. We prayed with a newfound understanding, our minds still lingering on the stories she is still sharing.

And now, as I reflect on those evenings, I realize that it wasn’t just the rosary that made those moments special. It was the way our mother turned something we once dreaded into something we will cherish forever—something we look forward to when we are happy, worried, sad, or overwhelmed. Through her, we learned that prayer is not just about words or rituals—it’s about connection, love, and the stories that bind us together.

So tonight, as we close our eyes and say our prayers, it is my privilege to share with you “Our Parallel Rosary” and the lessons you can gain from it. And I smile, knowing that our mother’s love and her gift for storytelling can also influence you today to pray OUR FATHERRRRRRR WHO ART IN HEAVENN…

Goodnight!

Her Mother’s Daughter,