Fall Marian Helper 2021

From the VAULTS “Go to Joseph,” she would say, — And he would run to place his small hand in the large one that awaited him, A gentle hand for all its work-worn callouses and sturdy strength. These hands of Joseph’s — These the child well knew. Beloved hands that harbored him and held him, Served him and safe-guarded him. these they were and more. Steadfastly protecting hands, Hands that led, provided, guided. These they were and more. They were working hands — and loving hands — and praying hands. And they were hands that made work, love and prayer all one. His hand in Joseph’s; thus he grew. And growing, learned. As boys since time began must learn from men. To throw a ball — to sing a song — to climb a tree, Or plant a tree and match its yearly progress with his own. To watch families of sparrows as they nested in its foliage, And to share its fruits with friends and strangers, And to make those strangers friends. To name the stars seen through its branches And use the moon as monthly measure And foretell the morning’s weather from the cast of evening’s sky. To delight in springtime’s sunshine and its gifts of life aborning And its unexpected showers sent to brighten nature’s green. And to sorrow. Yes, to sorrow At those things that lacked all gladness For there also was grave sadness to be seen. Joseph showed him as he led him by the hand. To the worn and the afflicted, To the beaten and defeated, To the lost souls who’d left off trying, The lost hearts that tired of hoping, The forlorn whose faith was failing, They would bring their consolation — And what help their hands could give. And a share in their small treasures. Welcome to join their pleasures. These they offered. Little measures. Still that little meant a lot, And somehow their very presence made each place a sacred spot. The boy grew in youthful vigor, Yearly stronger, wiser, bigger, Needing less of Joseph’s guidance and his firm paternal care. Heeding more the needs of living, Doing more and more his share. And his hands, now skilled as Joseph’s, Matched in craftsmanship and caring those he’d copied since his childhood In their every mood and art In the manner of their movement — in the method of their labor — In their mercy — in their might — and in their meekness. In their very manliness. Hands both of master and of servant Joseph’s hands had been. And they’d been model hands the full while they’d been molding hands, For they were all a father’s and a teacher’s hands could be. All these they were and more. These humble workman’s hands — fallible human hands — remarkably ordinary hands — These hands had taught their God to be a man. Go to Joseph, you who walk alone. His hands are waiting. Anne Trudden 36 M ARIAN H ELPER • F ALL 2021 • MARIAN . ORG A poem from the Jan.-March, 1969, issue of the Marian Helper Bulletin: The Boy and Joseph