Tokens of Meaning

Root Beer, Sea Glass, and Rosaries

Faith of our [mothers], we will strive,
To win all nations unto thee,
And thru the truth that comes from God,
Mankind shall then be truly free.
Faith of our [mothers], holy faith,
We will be true to thee till death!
—Hymns, no. 84

When I was sixteen, my Grandma Jean died in our home, cancer riddling her frail body. Father Michael from Saint Catherine’s down the street performed her last rites in my childhood bedroom. Our faiths were not the same, yet Grandma’s unwavering belief laid the foundation for my own. Her religious understanding, and that of my Catholic foremothers, introduced me to a rich and visual world full of symbolism, rites, tradition, and ritual that served as a backdrop to my own Latter-day Saint faith. Participating in my grandmother’s religious heritage not only developed our shared conviction in Christ but informed my understanding of women’s place in the sacred.

As a young girl, I would visit Grandma Jean in Chesterton, an hour's drive and a world away from our home in Chicago. Every summer, my Sunday visits to her small town in the shadows of the Indiana dunes involved three things: the A&W root beer stand, beachcombing, and Mass at Saint Pat’s. Each stop was essential to the tradition and never separated. All three parts of the excursion transported this Mormon city girl to a mystical haven, with Grandma as guide leading the way.

Frosty mugs and french fries delivered by roller-skating carhops, perfectly balanced on the precarious window tray hanging off Grandma's Mustang—magical. The soft, shushing corduroy sound of bare feet brushing through sand, backs warmed by the setting sun, eyes scanning the wave line in search of our tumbled green sea glass treasure—enchanting. The soft clicking of Grandma’s robin’s-egg-blue rosary beads, a fragrant whisper of ancient woods and spice wafting over us, the morning Sunday sun dancing through stained glass windows, Mother Mary front and center tenderly cradling the Christ child—otherworldly.

Although I didn’t see it at the time, Grandma created for us a sacred ritual with the cool caramel taste of root beer, the slow, joyful work of seeking tiny treasures, and the gentle rhythm of rosary beads sliding through her reverent fingers. In root beer, I learned that I am loved, that happy times together bond us, that a little sweetness makes things better. In sea glass, I saw that broken things can become new and beautiful, that letting our rough edges smooth isn’t something to be avoided, and that beautiful discoveries are there to be found but require patience and diligence. In the rosary, I remember that I am a part of history both sacred and familial, that girls like me are creators of meaning, that we matter, that the repetition of our story, women’s story, will never be in vain, and that our pleading, yearning, and seeking are consecrated by God. Build love, accept our Heavenly Parents’ refining hands, remember women’s vital role in faith, family, and church: these are the lessons lovingly imparted through Grandma’s rites of root beer, sea glass, and rosary. You are loved. You are redeemable. You are essential.