Father

I walked along the nave, it was cool compared to the summer heat outside. Arriving at the candle rack, I took a breath. I remembered him: his best and his worst. I set the flame down and bowed my head, in honour of my father.

I took a seat in the rear chapel, in front of glowing stained glass windows that depicted the birth, death, and resurrection of Christ. I noted Joseph was present only in the nativity scene, standing behind Mary and her son.

I pondered: whatever happened to Joseph? Considering his role in the moulding of Jesus into a man, he gets minimum mentions in the Bible.

A man who fell in love with a woman who was pregnant, ensured they were registered for taxes, evaded a king who wanted his child dead, taught his son how to work with the nature of wood, and recognised his service was something larger than himself. The story of Joseph holds a strong archetype of a man of true strength and humility. Yet, faith and modern cultures rarely point to his example of true masculinity.

Theologians note that as Joseph was somewhat older than Mary, he died sometime after Jesus was aged twelve. It is understood he passed away of natural causes, with his wife and children by his side, which made him the saint of a happy and peaceful death.

Gazing deeper into the stained glass murals, I sat with my father for a while, digging into past memories of when he faded in and out of my life. The day I reconciled with him was the day I saw the man of humility and recognised the reward of finding forgiveness within.

It was just a phone call, but my father passed knowing I loved him. I visit his place of rest whenever I am in Scotland. More importantly, I spend time on holy ground with his spirit and memory, which helps me to go deeper into my own being.