I continue to work on unearthing the story that burns within me. Some might think I am simply grieving out loud and there may be some truth in that. But each time I sit down and write, summoning the story of my son so as to share it with others, something burns deep inside of me. Am I trying to make sense of his death? No. That is futile and I am not interested in some quasi-therapeutic act that in the end would be simply wasting time. Am I wanting to anoint him for sainthood? God no. He was far from a saint. I’ve seen too many people do that to those who die. The faults and struggles and dysfunctions are glossed over to create someone who never existed. I am not going to do that. Yet something is burning inside of me.
Today as I reflected in my book about the way Joseph was different I remembered a story. It was a story of forgiveness. A story that he reflected on in a journal that he kept as a 12 year old. He had money stolen from him by a faceless, nameless thief. One might expect him to share his anger or hurt or the injustice of it. He did none of that. Instead he shared his sense of forgiveness toward those that had wronged him.
That’s Joseph. His story burns inside me. The world needs to hear it. That tangled-headed, dred-locked son of mine was a man of love and heart and forgiveness. He was far from perfect and while named after a saint, will never take his place along side the stained-glassed saints of the past. But he continues to speak. I cannot keep him alive by sharing his story but I can tell the story of how the world was just a little bit better because he lived in it.
His story burns inside me.
Until next time,
DP