Not Enough Prayers
First, let me introduce myself. My name is Jose Antonio Ponce. I was given the name because I was born on May 1st, the feast of St. Joseph. In Mexican culture, a child is often given the name of a saint and in effect, has two birthdays, but my father was so cheap, he simply named us after the saint of the day we were born so that h could save himself having to pay for an extra birthday. My brother Patrickwas born on St. Patrick's day, my sister Juanita was born on the feast of St. John. You get the idea.
I was raised Catholic from birth, baptized as an infant, confirmed and received my first communion while still in Catholic school. As a teen and young man, I walked away from the church, but after bouts with alcoholism and drug addiction, I returned and have worked to become a better Catholic, better man, better person since. I still struggle with pride and anger and lots of other vices, but I am better than I used to be. It's my hope that I will eventually reach the place where I will be worthy of God's grace and mercy.
What follows is a bit of the faith that my father and mother instilled in me. Thanks for reading.
Crucifix
I have been wearing this crucifix around my neck for maybe 40 years. It was a gift from my father, a talented man who designed it and then turned it over to a silversmith to create. At one point in his life, my father had been a draftsman, but I always remember him as being multi-talented. He was a pretty good basketball player in his day, leading his high school basketball team to a state championship. He could draw some, play a little piano and could tell the worst jokes but deliver them so well that even the stale ones were funny. He did all of these things well enough to make a living at them, but he understood that his calling was a to be a parent. To raise a family.
The image on the crucifix is a simple drawing. Faceless, the body’s head, arms, torso and legs are segmented, but completely original. It is made of the finest silver, and I had my mother solder a larger loop on top and get me a sturdy chain so that I would never lose it. My father gave the same crucifix to both of his sons, but not to his daughters. I think maybe because the cross is large and not at all elegant, about an inch and a half in length and an inch across. The crossbeams are a quarter of an inch wide and the silver itself is thick and sturdy. My brother never wore his. Said it was too heavy. I can understand. He had his reasons for disagreeing with the Catholic Church.
For me, it is a reminder of my dad and how much he loved us, how much he cared for our souls. Both of his sons were disappointments to him, in different ways, but he never stopped loving us. He never stopped taking care of us until the day he died. Six months before his passing, (he had terminal cancer) he called me up and said, ‘Let’s go get you some shoes.’ I was by then in my early 40s and he still felt the need to make sure I had a decent pair of work boots, just in case. He understood the disappointment. He understood failure. He himself had failed many times.
There are times when this crucifix gets heavy for me too. Those times when I’m on my way to doing something wrong, telling a lie, being selfish or just mean. Sometimes I’ll give it a tug and remind myself how good my dad was. How disappointed he would be by my behavior. How much the wellbeing of all of his children meant to him.
It never leaves me. Never comes off my neck. It may at some point in the future, for a medical procedure or maybe if I have to get on a plane somewhere. Sometimes when I write, I’ll run my thumb along the face of it, contemplating my next line and thinking how my father didn’t quite understand what I wanted to do for a living. He always supported me in my choice of work, he just never quite understood it.
I’d like to be buried with this crucifix or maybe pass it along to my son or someone else I love very much. I’d like to think that it could make their life better as it has made my life better. I would like them to feel loved as I have felt loved.
Some people believe that the crucifix, as a reminder of Christ’s death, only tells half the story. A Catholic thing. Some people say that an empty cross better represents Christ’s resurrection and victory over sin and death. But an empty cross, for me, doesn’t tell the story of how a father loved his children so much, he sacrificed the thing he loved the most. His only son.
That was my dad. Giving his wayward children all that he had because he loved them so much.