The Regt Rosary

In the repetition of those ancient prayers, amidst the silent communion of fellow fighting aged males in best dress, the walls I’d built around my faith crumbled. Silent tears, jaw rattling and holding back tears down my face. I wasn't just saying the Rosary; I was feeling love that I did not deserve.

Somewhere between the relentless demands of service and civilian life, the quiet ache of something missing. My faith, once a steady compass in my early 20’s felt like a waning moon. The camaraderie of the Sqn bar often blurred into something darker, and the escape I sought in a glass too often became a fog I couldn't lift. I was going through the motions – at work, at home, even in the pew on Sunday. Then, the Catholic Military Association (CMA) page landed on my Instagram.

The CMA became a lifeline I hadn't known I needed. It wasn't just another association; it was a fellowship forged in shared belief amidst the unique pressures of serving Crown and Country. Across all three services, within the green machine of the MOD, the CMA offered a quiet counterpoint: structured prayer groups, genuine spiritual counsel, and the unexpected comfort of finding brothers and sisters in arms who understood the struggle to reconcile duty with devotion. It was through them I heard about the annual pilgrimage to Walsingham.

Walking the Holy Mile barefoot

Walsingham, England’s Nazareth. I went more out of obligation to the CMA group than burning conviction. The ancient shrine, the winding path of the Holy Mile, bare footed – it felt like stepping into history, Then came the Rosary session. We gathered in the cool, dim light of the Slipper Chapel, the air thick with centuries of whispered prayers. As the decades began, my mind, usually a minefield of worries and to-do lists, initially fought the rhythm. *Hail Mary, full of grace...

But somewhere between the third and fourth decade, kneeling on the worn stone floor, the beads cool and smooth between my calloused fingers, something shifted. It wasn't a vision or a voice. It was a profound, undeniable presence. A warmth spread through my chest, a deep, resonant peace that settled the churning sea within me. It felt like being seen, truly seen and embraced, by a love that was both immense and intimately personal. The Holy Spirit – the concept I’d intellectually acknowledged – became a tangible reality. In the repetition of those ancient prayers, amidst the silent communion of fellow fighting aged males in best dress, the walls I’d built around my faith crumbled. Silent tears, jaw rattling and holding back tears down my face. I wasn't just saying the Rosary; I was feeling love that I did not deserve.

That moment in Walsingham wasn’t an end; it was a fierce re-ignition. 

That moment in Walsingham wasn’t an end; it was a fierce re-ignition. It gave me the courage to finally commit to Exodus 90 with the CMA brothers who’d become my accountability partners. The ninety days of asceticism – prayer, discipline, fraternity – weren't easy. They were a boot camp for the soul, stripping away the distractions, especially the numbing comfort of alcohol. It forced me to confront the void I’d been trying to fill and showed me it could only be filled by the Son of Man.

Coming out the other side of Exodus, the resolve forged in Walsingham and tempered by those ninety days held firm. Five months sober. Saying that still fills me with a quiet awe. The clarity is staggering. The mental fog that alcohol induced, that made me sluggish and short-tempered, has lifted. At work, I’m sharper, more present. Tasks I used to dread feel manageable. Decisions are clearer. My focus isn't fractured by hangovers or the nagging anxiety.

But the real transformation, the most precious fruit, is at home. I’m present for my family now. Not just physically, but emotionally available. I can listen to my wife without distraction. I can spend time with my children, without the underlying agitation or the need to escape. The irritability that was a constant shadow of demonic warfare has receded.

The journey isn’t over but the foundation is different now. The CMA remains my anchor – the shared prayers, the honest conversations over social media chats, the knowledge that I’m not alone in this walk of faith within the uniformed life. That diverse network across the Army, Navy, and Air Force, all united under the Cross, provides a unique strength. Walsingham was the spark, the Rosary the channel for the Spirit's fire, and the CMA the brotherhood that fanned the flames and helps me tend them daily. I’m still a work in progress, a gunner under construction, but now I march with a different kind of strength – one rooted in faith, clarity, and the profound peace found on my knees, clutching rosary beads. The course of action moving forward is routed in Christ.