You could always tell the days that my father, a judge at the time, had family court. Where his day might have been spent trying to decide impossible situations: placing a child in the custody of the state or choosing between two possibly unfit parents; or trying to convince a willful and wayward child that the two people who cared the most about him or her were the parents standing right there.
The problems decided in family court were especially painful ones, and they took a lot out of him. On family court days, he often returned home covered in a certain morose pallor. But every morning, back to work he’d go.
My father’s life was far from easy. His own father died from a long and terrible bout with cancer. (Curiously, my grandfather offered his suffering for the conversion of Russia.) My dad was only 13 when he became the “man of the family.” His mother, widowed, worked as a receptionist in a dental office to make ends meet, but with six young children, this was nearly impossible. My father grew up poor enough that other families would occasionally bring meals and the like. Dad got to college on the GI bill and went to law school at night while working full time for an insurance company. No one handed him anything.
Growing up in my father’s house, a few of his habits stand out to this day.
One: He fasted every Friday aside from liquids. Every Friday he would come in from work and pour himself a glass of orange juice. He did this for many years until his health no longer permitted it. Two: He didn’t miss Mass. I cannot recall a single instance but for being hospitalized that my father missed Sunday Mass. Even now, at nearly 96, he attends daily Mass when he is able with the help of my older brother. Three: He began every day with prayer. I can remember as a child on the bitter winter days in Minnesota when it was simply too cold to wait for the bus at the end of our country driveway, we’d pile into the car with Dad and he’d drop us off at St. Raphael. On the way, it was compulsory, the morning offering prayers would thunder through our paneled station wagon, my father in the lead. “Oh Jesus, through the Immaculate Heart of Mary, I offer you my prayers, works, joys and sufferings of this day for all the intentions of your Sacred Heart …” It’s one of my fondest childhood memories.
Some years ago, my father started making a Holy Hour every day for our nation, so concerned was he with the direction it was headed. After a few months, he turned to my mother and said, “One hour isn’t enough; we need to make two.” And so, my parents offer two Holy Hours every day along with the rosary, the Divine Mercy chaplet, and the Liturgy of the Hours.
The faith of my father has not been a glamorous thing, not showy or dramatic, not something calling attention to itself. But it has been unwavering beyond description, and it has anchored, blessed and fought for me in ways I probably won’t fully understand until heaven.
Faith of my father, holy faith. Indeed, I will be true to you, O Lord, ’til death, in no small part owing to the faith of my dad. What joy that will be between the two of you when you meet one day, face-to-face, in heaven.
Thank you, Dad, for living and teaching daily faithfulness. It has been priceless to me.
Stanchina is the community leader for Women’s Formation at Bishop Barron’s Word on Fire Institute and the award-winning author of more than a dozen books. Visit her website at LizK.org.
