Remembering my father: A Catholic faith observed

Saint Francis of Assisi purportedly instructed his followers to “preach the Gospel always, and if necessary, use words.” Yogi Berra, the not-yet-canonized former Yankee player, manager, and king of malaprops, once said, “You can observe a lot just by watching.”

My late father was usually a man of few words, although the words he used were often golden. It was rather his lived example that spoke volumes. And in my formative years, I could observe a lot just by watching.

My parents raised their eight children Catholic. For us, that meant Mass every Sunday and 12 years of Catholic education. We said grace before meals, but we weren’t given to other family prayer, and catechetical discussions were rare. The closest we came to a family rosary was the occasional vigil service before a funeral. Still, we were Catholic, and we knew it. It was our identity.

My father wasn’t the type to play catch with us after work; the farm boy in him insisted he tend to the garden and orchard on our two-acre property. Nor do I ever recall him saying “I love you” to any of us. He didn’t have to: there was something about his very presence that communicated his love, strength, and care, much in the mold of St. Joseph.

Dad modeled Catholic values in his 60-year marriage to our mother. He was diligent in his work and sacrificed much to provide for us. He was a thinker more than a talker, but when he did speak his gentle wisdom and unique humor kept us both enlightened and entertained.

He’s been gone nearly 16 years now, but there are three things he left that I treasure most.

One is the book he wrote, in his own inimitable and self-deprecating prose, of his childhood, his courtship of our mother, and his service as a pilot and bombardier in the Army Air Force during World War II.

Another is his rosary — one decade of which has just nine beads. Where the bead is missing, the links have been repaired, so on the 10th Hail Mary my fingers come to this unusual open space that catches me off guard every time. It serves to remind me of my father, who had a stub where his right index finger once was, a relic of shrapnel injuries sustained during an Allied bombing run over German oil fields in 1944 that earned him the Purple Heart and the Silver Star. That missing bead is a call to pray for his intention.

The third is my dad’s old copy of the Imitation of Christ, a well-worn hardbound 1950s pocket edition he picked up somewhere for $1.50, if the penciled-in price on the inside cover is to be believed. It remains one of my go-to books of spiritual reading, my constant companion whenever I travel. Within its exhortations on growth in virtue I see many of the traits that I associate with my father.

My father never spoke much of his interior life, but I always sensed he possessed a deep faith and quiet prayer life that formed him into the virtuous man he was. From observing him, in his actions more than his words, I learned how a man must live his faith in everyday life. For that and so much more, I will always be grateful.

Gerald Korson is acting editor of Legatus magazine