My Road to Baptism (Part 2): Job’s Tears and Church Bells

It was sometime in March, shortly before Easter.

The morning was still cold.

I had arranged to meet the sister outside the church at 9:20 a.m., about ten minutes before Mass.

Not wanting to keep her waiting in the cold, I left home a little early.

At the time, I lived about thirty minutes away on foot.

It was not particularly close, but somehow the walk felt important.

Perhaps because I knew I was finally doing something I had wanted to do for many years.

A rosary made of seeds

When I met the sister and we began walking towards the church, she suddenly smiled and said:

“I was wondering what I could give you.”

From her pocket, she took out a rosary made of small brown tear-shaped seeds.

Then she reached into another pocket and showed me an older one.

“I use the same kind,” she said.

“The seeds become smooth and shiny with use.”

The rosary she carried had clearly been used for many years.

It was beautiful in a quiet way.

At the time, I knew nothing about rosaries.

Later, I learned that these seeds are often called Job’s Tears.

That rosary became the first rosary I ever owned.

Even today, after making many rosaries of my own, it is still the one I use when I pray.

My first Mass

Together, we entered the church.

At the entrance, I received a booklet containing the readings and prayers for that day’s Mass.

The sister also handed me a hymnal.

“The hymns are in this book,” she said.

“You’ll need it during Mass.”

We sat a little behind the middle of the church.

The sister showed me where to find the hymn numbers and suggested placing the ribbons in advance.

Then she lent me a small red booklet.

It explained the order of the Mass.

For a newcomer, it was something between a guidebook and a survival manual.

The sound of church bells

As the time for Mass approached, the church bells began to ring.

I still remember that sound.

Clear.

Beautiful.

Almost as if the air itself had become transparent.

Then everyone stood.

The pipe organ began to play.

And the entrance hymn filled the church.

Trying to keep up

The Mass I attended was a sung Mass.

To my surprise, many of the prayers were sung rather than spoken.

Everything felt unfamiliar.

And fascinating.

To be completely honest, I understood almost nothing.

The sister quietly turned the pages of the little red booklet and whispered:

“We’re here now.”

“Next comes this part.”

I followed as best I could.

Standing.

Sitting.

Kneeling.

Turning pages.

Trying not to get lost.

At the time, that alone felt like a great achievement.

Looking back

When I think about that first Mass, I do not remember understanding much.

What I remember is the feeling.

The bells.

The music.

The kindness of the sister sitting beside me.

And the sense that I had finally stepped through a door that had remained closed for many years.