family prayer | The-Rosary-In-Our-Hands
“What about naming him John?”
My husband had privately asked me this once or twice before, and I had vetoed it both times. Over the course of nine months, we debated and battled and strived and searched to find a name for our son and continued to come up empty. His name was a big, fat mystery. Might as well name him Question Mark. And now, in the throes of a 20-hour labor with this unnamed, transverse baby, I was feeling even less inclined to cooperate.
“John sounds like an old man’s name,” I said, wincing through another contraction. “What about Anthony? Or Nicholas?”
My husband didn’t have time to answer. The baby’s heart rate plummeted on the monitors, setting off a cacophony of alarms. Nurses rushed into my room, flipped my bloated body around, and pumped me with fluids to help soothe the baby and get his heart beating properly again.
I knew the drill. We’d been doing this little song and dance every 2 to 3 minutes for half a day.
My husband walked to the whiteboard that was hanging on the wall and wrote down two names.
Nicholas
Anthony
Those were pretty solid names. Maybe they could even go together. Nicholas Anthony or Anthony Nicholas.
Yeah, that sounded okay.
Seeking a Patron Saint
Slowly, my abdomen began to squeeze and burn and tighten. Just a little at first, then stronger. Strooonger. I tried to stay calm. Tried to breathe. In. Out. Maybe if I was calm enough, the baby would finally make it through a contraction without a prob —
The familiar sound of mechanical screeching filled the room, followed by a handful of panic-stricken nurses.
“Who’s the patron saint of heart patients?” I asked my husband as the nurses tossed me from one side to the other and adjusted my pillows.
My husband whipped out his phone and had the answer within seconds. “Somebody named Saint John of God.”
I huffed. Of course, it’d be a guy named John.
“I’m gonna ask him to pray for us,” my husband said. “And maybe Saint Anthony, too, since he’s a miracle worker.”
I nodded and let my eyes close.
All too soon, the alarms started beeping again. I glanced at the clock as the nurses flipped me, and somehow, it was two hours later than I thought. I must’ve dozed off. But how on earth could that happen?
“Why haven’t the nurses been in here with each contraction?” I asked my husband.
He shrugged, his shoulders heavy with fatigue. “I’ve been talking to Saint John of God and Saint Anthony for the past two hours,” he said. “The baby’s heart was doing fine the whole time, so I thought it’d be okay if I laid down and got some sleep. But the very next contraction after I stopped praying, this happened …” he gestured to the flashing lights and blaring buzzer.
The baby was fine for two whole hours? And then the very next contraction without the intercession of Saint Anthony and Saint John of God, we were back to square one? Even in my sleep-deprived, epidural-ridden state, my foggy brain could understand the immense power of that statement.
I cocked my head in thought. Saint John of God and Saint Anthony, huh? They seemed like pretty good guys. Pretty powerful intercessors. And clearly, they were good at looking out for my son.
Could my baby be named after them? Maybe Anthony John? I shook my head and grimaced. That didn’t sound right. But the only other alternative would be John Anthony. I shook my head again. No. No, John.
Powerful Rosary Intercessors
Just then, my husband got a text message from his sister. A woman whom I love and adore. A woman whose Catholic faith radiates from her like a beautiful aura. A woman who knew absolutely nothing about the patron saint of heart patients or our experience during the last few hours.
My husband read the message and his hand flew to his mouth. Tears spilled down his cheeks.
“What is it?” I pressed. “Is everything okay?”
He nodded and began to read his sister’s message out loud. “I was praying the Rosary for you just now and, I don’t know why, but I feel really convicted to tell you that your baby’s name …” my husband’s voice trailed off and the tears came again.
“What about his name?” I leaned forward in bed as best I could, thirsting for the rest of that sentence, knowing without a doubt I was closer to the answer than ever before.
My husband cleared his throat and read the message again. “I was praying the Rosary for you just now and, I don’t know why, but I feel really convicted to tell you that your baby’s name is John Anthony.”
I flopped back against the depleted pillows on my hospital bed and smiled. In a mere matter of minutes, Mary’s intercession did more than nine months of my own blood, sweat, and Googling.
Finally — finally — I had received the gift of my son’s name. His name is John.
Venerable Patrick Peyton, known as "The Rosary Priest," devoted his priestly life to encouraging family prayer, especially the Rosary. This October, for the Month of the Holy Rosary, Family Rosary (an apostolate founded by Father Peyton) and Catholic Mom have teamed up for this daily series dedicated to the Rosary.
About the author:
When Kelsey Gillespy became a mom, she was an ESPN Academic All-American and an award-winning writer. After having her first child, however, Kelsey discovered that motherhood was by far the most difficult thing she had ever done. Now — ten years and six babies later — she has found that being a mother can be beautiful and fulfilling, albeit a little (okay, very) messy and chaotic. At any given moment, Kelsey can be found homeschooling her herd of humans, lifting weights or small children, laughing out loud, or singing kids songs that are forever stuck in her head. Follow her on Facebook, Instagram @kelseygillespy, and her website, KelseyGillespy.com.