I’ve been working my way through one of the loveliest Advent prayer and meditation guides I’ve encountered in years: Behold, by Sr. Miriam James Heidland, SOLT.
It was free for the taking at St. Maria Goretti Church in Madison, so I tucked one in my handbag on the Feast of Christ the King.
It is very clearly structured (tapping straight into the deep German recesses of my DNA) and is beautifully minimalist in its approach to this liturgical season (soothing my currently fried psyche).
Each week has a particular focus: (1) Mary as healer, (2) Joseph as protector, (3) the Child Jesus, and (4) the Holy Family.
While this column will be published in Advent week three, I am writing it in week two, and St. Joseph as the subject matter of choice is suddenly crystal clear to me.
This was not my original plan for December, but if there are any fans out there who’ve followed my columns to date, you’ll know that the Holy Spirit is not shy about recalibrating my GPS when He feels the need. I think I sense a pattern here.
St. Joseph is not a natural reflection choice for me because, as with Mary, I have had no sense of closeness to him in my life.
I beseech his intercession for numerous things (patron saint status notwithstanding) but admit I’ve often felt as though he’s not listening
. . . like a distant or disinterested figure.
But this week’s meditations (yes, I’ve cheated and skipped ahead) are painting a picture to me of St. Joseph as my own father who, though often subtle in his demonstration of it, was neither distant nor disinterested in me.
I have always thought of my dad as a 20th-century St. Joseph, but I have never before been able to picture St. Joseph as my dad.
“An irreplaceable figure,” “true strength,” one “persevering through mystery,” “tender,” a man of “honor and honesty” — each is used by Sister Miriam to describe St. Joseph in his foster fatherhood to Jesus, and I saw each of these things in my own father till the day he died in 2006.
Dad was most certainly an irreplaceable figure in my life. I’ve previously spoken of Mom’s influence on my Catholic faith, but Dad’s was just as profound.
Two things will forever stick with me: “Above all, pray to know and do God’s holy will; secondly, pray for a happy death.”
As a kid, the “God’s holy will” part I understood, but the “happy death” thing seemed a tad severe.
Later I would learn that St. Joseph is the patron of a happy death because he is believed to have died in the arms of Jesus and Mary. I believe that Dad did as well.
In the closing lines of my parents’ 50th anniversary video memoir, I said, “Thank you, Dad . . . for your endless patience, your deep integrity, and your quiet strength.”
If I were restricted to two words to describe my father, they would be “quiet strength.”
He wore his authority with ease, and it was always in control . . . true strength.
Trials and tests did not rattle him — well, not outwardly anyway.
I know he was a worrier, but he was anchored in faith of solid rock.
He was a Depression kid who gave up the best years of his life to serve in World War II . . . lost his mother before it ended and came back from it to no home . . . somehow survived and achieved success. I think that’s sufficiently perseverant through mystery.
Dad did not find it easy to be affectionate, but he was definitely tender.
If things were not the greatest for me, he would turn with a misty gaze and ask, “Is there anything I can do, Babe?”
He has interceded for me since his death on more than one occasion, and I know he won’t cease until the day I hopefully see him again.
Despite minimal opportunity for education, Dad built his own construction business. Yes, like St. Joseph, he was even a carpenter!
He often said, “I’ve spent my life working for myself, doing something that I like, and even managed to make a nickel at it. You can’t do much better than that.”
Honor and honesty governed his every move . . . as did humility and gratitude.
Dad was not a perfect man by any means. He would be the first to say it. But he was, in fact, a great man, and he imparted wisdom that has served me well through the years.
He did his best to model himself after St. Joseph, and I can now feel a warmth in my heart for the foster father of Jesus that has never been there before.
His Rosary ever in his pocket, Dad usually said one for each of his four children every day.
Night prayers were never missed, and they were always on his knees at the side of his bed.
It reminds me of a classic family photo of him, very tired from a long day on the job in the cold, with my three saintly siblings at his knees saying their prayers (see above).
I was not yet in the picture — literally or figuratively.
If he had known this prayer at the time, I think he would have added it as an extra to their regimen. It was once in the bulletin of my first parish in New Jersey — way back in 1992 — and is intended to be said as you light the Advent wreath candles:
“We pray that Christ, the Christmas King, may stoop to bless and guide you, day by day, to holiness — your Friend in joy, your Comfort in distress.
“That every cloud may lead you to the Light; that He may raise you up from height to height — Himself the Daystar of your darkest night.
That Christ, before whose crib you bend the knee, may fill your longing soul abundantly with grace to follow Him more perfectly.”
Wishing you a most holy and blessed Christmas and New Year.
Maria Burns is a lifelong Catholic and writer who lives in Madison.