Dear God,
I’ve always felt bad for Joseph, that his amazing faith in You and dedication to the Holy Family have been somewhat overlooked in the whole nativity story. I’m trying to picture myself in his shoes as I reflect on today’s reading in Matthew (1:18-24):

This is how the birth of Jesus Christ came about. When his mother Mary was betrothed to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found with child through the Holy Spirit. Joseph her husband, since he was a righteous man, yet unwilling to expose her to shame, decided to divorce her quietly. Such was his intention when, behold, the angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary your wife into your home. For it is through the Holy Spirit that this child has been conceived in her. She will bear a son and you are to name him Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins.” All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had said through the prophet: “Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel, which means ‘God is with us.’” When Joseph awoke, he did as the angel of the Lord had commanded him and took his wife into his home.

If I were Joseph, and learned that my fiancée was knocked up, I think I would be so disturbed that any wild dream I had at the time I would immediately blame on my meds. (Doesn’t Zoloft cause vivid dreams?) When I think about Joseph’s predicament, I don’t know of a whole lot of people who would have been as kind as to quietly divorce their prospective spouse with a bun in the oven, much less listen to a flaky dream.
And Joseph remains the totally devoted, modest, and faithful father and husband throughout Jesus’ entire life, and yet he’s barely mentioned after Jesus’ birth. He is the silent but steady and strong force behind every picture of Madonna and Child.
You have to wonder if he wasn’t a tad perturbed every time Jesus told his disciples and Pharisees and Sadducees that God was his father. That would be kind of like the dad who snooped around on his son’s Facebook page only to discover that the kid’s biggest hero in life was his stepdad. Ouch.

I guess because we mothers carry the baby inside of us and have the privilege of enduring labor—or are usually more involved in the adoption process—we sometimes overlook the pivotal role that the dads and husbands play.
In this year’s Christmas card, my guardian angel Ann wrote this to Eric:

Eric, you are the reason Therese is able to flourish. You have the sense of humor to know she is authentic, and the confidence to let her have center stage. You have so much ahead of you.

I’m a bit worried by that last statement (as is he!), but I think she’s absolutely right with regard to Eric’s role in my recovery from depression. As scary as it was for me in that Black Hole, I have no doubt it was even more terrifying for him—because he had absolutely no control over the situation. And it was Eric who steered me toward Johns Hopkins, to a team of adept doctors, when I had given up on traditional medicine after 21 different cocktails and six bad shrinks.
Joseph is like the male figure skater or male ballet dancer who lifts the elegant ballerina or skater in the air, as the audience breaks into applause. I never realized how difficult that must be until a few weeks ago, when my sister-in-law bought tickets to the wrong “Nutcracker,” and so we drove a half hour north to watch some high-school production.
When the Nutcracker went to lift the Sugar Plum Fairy, his cheeks turned red, he grunted, and then he lost his hold and down she came not all that gracefully. I felt as though I had the giggles at a funeral. I couldn’t look at my sister-in-law, and she me. And it didn’t help matters that Katherine was sitting on my lap yelling “Mommy, boys are supposed to do ballet.”

I’ve been to so many professional ballets in my lifetime—where the males are so strong that the lifts are seamless—that I realized I take their jobs for granted. Just because they make it look easy, doesn’t mean it is. Those moves are quite difficult, especially if you have to lift a size-14 ballerina, like the poor guy in the high-school production.
Male ice-skaters and dancers never get to wear the cool costumes, either. Not only do they have to lift 165 pounds into the air (at least that teenage Nutcracker had to), they don the boring outfits, while the females get the sequenced tutus and squirts.
Which reminds me of the lyrics to Bette Midler’s “Wind Beneath My Wings.”
I know, God, you probably think the lines are as cheesy as we humans get. But this song gives me goose bumps and makes me laugh every time I hear it. Goose bumps, because I think of Eric when I listen to the words—he’s content to stay in the background, or in the shadows, supporting me in so many ways, as I publish my face all over the internet—and laughter, because I think about his version of the song, which he sang to me the day before we got married. It went like this: “You were my urine when I couldn’t pee.”
I just want you to know, God, that I don’t think St. Joseph should be Photoshopped out of any more portraits of the Holy Family. Because believing that his fiancé was pregnant with the Holy Spirit is right up there with giving birth to God. And he didn’t even consult an attorney. Wow.