(In this “November Special Series,” RVA’s writers share memories of loved ones they have lost, a celebration of their lives, recalled with a tinge of sadness and the hope that one day there will be a reunion…… in a place where there is no death, no suffering, and where God Himself will wipe away every tear. – Editor)
I have always said it with pride and tenderness: I am my father’s son.
Though we were four siblings, there was an unspoken bond between him and me, a quiet closeness that needed no explanation. My brothers sometimes felt jealous, like Joseph’s brothers in the book of Genesis. But there was no coat of many colors, no special treatment. What existed between us was deeper than appearances, something that could never be displayed yet was always felt. I simply knew that somewhere in his heart, there was a corner reserved just for me.
I loved my mother deeply too, but she was my younger brother’s beloved. He went to her for everything; I went to my father. Perhaps love chooses its own paths in a home, and perhaps every child finds a different refuge. Mine was always my father.
My Teacher
I learned my earliest theology on his lap. He prayed with me, taught me scripture, and shared biblical stories long before I ever entered a classroom. He was the first catechist of my soul.
In our culture, men are not supposed to cry. He told me to be strong and never cry in public. I never believed in that rule, but I never cried either. But the day he came to drop me at the train station when I entered the seminary, I saw my father cry for the first ever time. He cried like a child, holding back nothing. In that moment, I realized how deeply I was rooted in his heart. He forgot his rule, his culture, his reputation as a strong man. Those tears told me I was loved beyond measure.
During my seminary days, his love followed me in long letters filled with scripture quotes, encouragement, and fatherly wisdom. All his life, he had prayed to God to call one of his sons to the priesthood. When I joined the seminary, he was proud that God answered his prayers, yet he always joked, “God could have taken the other two sons, not this one.” We laughed, but both of us knew there was truth hidden in the humor.
The Dream That Never Came True
In my heart, I had always pictured one moment more than any other, the day of my priestly ordination. I imagined my father walking with me to the altar, his hands trembling with joy, his eyes wet, his heart full. It was a dream I carried for years.
But God had another plan.
During my philosophy studies, I received the call: he was gravely ill. I rushed home on special permission, gripped by fear. When I saw him in the ICU, hope seemed lost. Yet somehow, my presence revived him. We talked, we prayed, and, like a miracle, he recovered. I returned to Pune, comforted, only for the illness to return a month later.
Once again he was rushed to the ICU. This time, he forbade the family from informing me, not wanting my studies to be disturbed. But love has its own intuition. I called my brother, who told me to come home because Dad would not survive one more night. I rushed home again. Once more, he recovered, because his “magic pill” had arrived.
I stayed for a week. Before leaving for my exams, he did something no father in our culture ordinarily asks: “Bless me,” he said. “You are going to be a priest.”
We do not lay hands on our parents for blessings. How could I lay hands on my father’s head? He knew and insisted. But that day, heaven bent low between us. Before I blessed him, I asked him to bless me as my earthly father, before I blessed him as a religious. He prayed a long prayer, tears streaming down his face, laying his trembling hands on my head. Then I laid hands gently on his head and blessed him, with tears in my eyes and prayers on my lips.
It was our last sacred exchange.
As I left the hospital, we both knew without saying it: the last hug had been given, the last goodbye spoken.
The Night the World Changed
He passed away two weeks later, on December 27, 2000.
That night, I could not sleep. The grief traveled across the miles and reached me long before the news did. My family had tried to call, but someone in the seminary had foolishly lowered the volume of the phone. Early morning, when my superior called me in, I walked in and said before he spoke: “I know my father is gone.”
I did not need a voice on the line; I had felt the breaking of my own heart.
Though permission was given to return home, I refused. I sat in the chapel instead, praying, holding the invisible weight of sorrow. Two days later, the superior gently ordered me to go home because I could not hide my pain.
As a seminarian, I had been to many funerals. When people cried, but I always felt strange. I always wondered, “Why cry? We will see them on the other side of the shore.” At my father’s resting place, I cried like a child for the first time in public. Only love can make a grown man weep like that. Now, when I see someone crying during funerals, I understand, and at times, I cry with them.
The Walk We Finally Took Together
Ordination is a day of joy for every seminarian, but I was sad that day. I missed my dad. My companions walked proudly to the altar accompanied by their fathers. I walked alone for a few steps. And then I felt, or so it seemed.
But I knew.
He was there.
Walking beside me.
Smiling.
Blessing.
Waiting for the priestly blessing he had so longed to receive.
There was sadness, yes, but also a quiet certainty that love never dies. Fathers do not leave their sons; they simply walk with them in ways the eyes cannot see.
A Son of My Father, Forever
Even today, after all these years, I remain my father’s son. His love formed me. His words strengthened me. His faith nourished my vocation. His tears watered my path. And his memory walks with me every time I stand at the altar.
In November, when the Church remembers the faithful departed, my heart remembers one man more deeply than all others,
the father who shaped my soul,
the father who blessed my priesthood with his dying breath,
the father who still walks with me in every step I take.
I am, and will always be, my father’s son.
