My son Daniel is twenty-six. He works on wind farms three states away, and most days I don't know which county he's in. For years I prayed for him at the door and sent the prayer with whatever I could find: a "To My Son" bracelet that broke before spring, a medal from the big online store that was a black disc. I wanted something of my prayer to go where I can't, on a piece that lasts and that he can actually read. That's Oremus. I read the first name on every order, and I pray for those names on Sunday. When you write to us, it's me who writes back.
Monica, at Oremus