Placing Every Anxiety in Mary’s Hands
Trust in the Heart of Trial
The air of Dublin already carried the scent of autumn. The wind slipped through the trees of St Vincent’s, bringing with it the low murmur of the Rosary rising from the small oratory. It was a gentle rhythm, almost a collective breath: the Sisters recited it softly, and that murmur seemed to embrace everything — the sick in the wards, the city’s poverty, the silence of the rooms where hope struggled against weariness.
Mary Aikenhead listened to that prayer from her window.
In hours of fatigue, the Rosary became for her both refuge and spring: the place where she found God without seeking Him, for she already felt Him alive in the slow rhythm of the words. She loved to call it the prayer of Mystery, for in it she saw the whole path of the Gospel enclosed. Each mystery was a doorway to pass through — the joy that enlightens, the sorrow that purifies, the glory that consoles.
In prayer, Mary never separated herself from the world: she carried it within her heart, weaving it into the words of the Rosary like threads of the same fabric. The distant Sisters, the homeless poor, the weary families, the wounded yet faithful Irish land — all found a place between her hands, joined to those of Mary.
She was fifty-six, and her health was beginning to show signs of decline. Her days unfolded between prayer and the responsibility of leadership, in a delicate balance between strength and fragility. In those months, the Archbishop of Dublin — with faculties granted by the Holy See — confirmed her as Superior General of the Congregation without limitation of time. It was not an honour, but a weight accepted in faith. Mary knew that this responsibility did not belong to her, but surpassed her. She accepted it as God’s will, with the simplicity of one who knows that true authority is service — and with it is given the grace to carry it.
And in this, her life was a silent lesson: she sought not to dominate, but to understand; not to decide, but to discern. She prayed before speaking, listened before acting. For her, spiritual governance was born from intimacy with God, and the Rosary was its hidden source. Each mystery offered her a different light: the strength of fidelity, the tenderness of compassion, the steadfastness of hope. In the rosary she always carried with her, she found the courage to lead without imposing, to correct without wounding, to serve without ever growing weary. Even within community life, the Rosary was a shared breath. Mary had woven it into the Sisters’ daily rhythm: prayed together, it united hearts, dissolved tensions, and restored peace. She recommended it as remedy for fatigue, as comfort in discouragement, as the simple path that keeps one’s gaze fixed on God. She knew that, through the voices of her spiritual daughters, the prayer would spread beyond the convent walls, reaching the homes of the poor, the hospital wards, the most distant villages.
Around her, Ireland was passing through troubled times. Poverty was growing, political unrest stirred the nation, yet in the humblest homes the Rosary was still recited, as it had been through centuries of persecution. Mary recognized in it the faith of her people — silent, tenacious, wounded yet unshaken. Each time she took the beads in her hands, she joined with that multitude of hands that had kept hope alive in the darkest hours, and she felt herself part of that invisible chain of trust.
In July of that same year, the difficulties became heavier. The convent of Preston was going through days of trial, and the Superior, Mother Francis Magdalen McCarthy, wrote to Mary seeking guidance. Her reply was simple and luminous — as always, when faith spoke more than words:
“I see such difficulties, that all I can find consolation in is, to deposit all my anxieties in the care of our ever Blessed Mother and Queen. May we deserve her all-powerful aid, and obtain through her glorious intercession all the gifts of the Holy Ghost which we need.”
(Mary Aikenhead, letter to Mother Francis Magdalen McCarthy, 6 July 1843)
In those lines lay the essence of her inner life: a trust that did not deny suffering, but dwelt within it. Mary did not analyse difficulties — she entrusted them. She did not ask to be freed from the burden, but to learn to bear it with Mary. In the Rosary she found the key to that peace — not a prayer that resolves, but one that transforms. Each mystery became a passage of grace, a form of listening, an act of faith that made her more docile to the will of God.
As the months went by, prayer became for Mary ever more essential, purified of everything that was not love. The rhythm of the Rosary was part of her daily fidelity — a quiet thread that kept her united to God and to her Sisters. She loved to speak of the Virgin and often she found a way to recommend the Rosary as a source of strength and consolation. For her, to place every anxiety in Mary’s hands was not a formula, but a way of believing: it meant looking at life through the eyes of the Mother, accepting fatigue as part of God’s design, and letting oneself be carried by grace. Thus, even in her greatest weakness, her faith remained clear and steadfast — a trust that made no noise, yet radiated peace.
The Rosary had become her silent answer to all things: the prayer that guards, consoles, and leads the soul into the quiet of God.
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Reflection
The trust in God that guided every step of Mary Aikenhead’s life was never a quiet certainty, but a fidelity tested and made radiant. It was a living trust, matured in trial, kept in silence, nourished by a deep life of prayer. Its strength sprang from abandonment to Providence, from constant dialogue with God, and from the intercession of Mary — for her a mother, a guide, and a source of comfort.
The Rosary was one of the paths through which this trust took shape and breath. In the simplicity of that prayer, Mary learned each day to let grace take the place of fear, and peace to be born from being held. Those who entrust themselves to Mary do not escape trial — they walk through it, but never alone. This is the trust that becomes hope, and hope that becomes holiness.
Saint John Paul II reminded us that the Rosary is a prayer “with a Christological heart,” enabling us to contemplate the face of Christ through the eyes of Mary. In that silent vision we find the spirit of Mary Aikenhead: her faith was not born from understanding, but from keeping; not from doing, but from surrendering all things into God’s hands. As Pope Francis writes, holiness grows “through the perseverance of those who remain steadfast in God’s love even amid difficulties.”
Mary lived in that perseverance and peace, in the trust that every cross, when offered in love, becomes a seed of light.
In this month of October, dedicated to the Rosary, her example reminds us that trust is not born of effort, but of communion. Mary found in Our Lady not only the Mother of consolation, but the Teacher of perseverance. In the Rosary she did not seek refuge, but strength; not words to repeat, but a dialogue uniting earth and Heaven. And in that daily, quiet prayer she discovered that the purest trust is born when one allows oneself to be carried — like a child — in the Mother’s arms. From there, every fear dissolves, and life itself becomes a “yes” spoken with her, at the heart of God’s mystery.
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Prayer
Mother of Jesus and our Mother,
you who believed the Word when it was only a promise,
and kept it in silence as a seed of life,
teach us to believe as you did,
when the light delays in coming
and hope seems lost among the shadows.
You who guided the steps of Mary Aikenhead
and sustained her on the path of trust and service,
make us also docile to grace,
able to lay every anxiety in your hands,
and to let God’s love act within our frailty.
Grant that, as we pray the Rosary, we may learn to look upon Christ with your eyes,
to recognise God’s presence in the smallest things,
to serve with a free heart,
and to believe that every pain, if welcomed with love,
becomes light for those who still hope.
Mother of hope,
Mother and Queen of the Holy Rosary,
accompany us on the daily journey of faith:
may the rhythm of our prayers
become a breath of trust and peace,
and may we, like Mary Aikenhead, learn
to believe in the silent strength of intercession,
until we are enfolded by your Son,
where the heart grows still
and all becomes prayer. Amen
Story written Dr Valentina Karakhanian
Postulator for the Cause of Venerable Mary Aikenhead.
Phyllis Behan RSC
Vice-Postulator – collaborator
