Today I will not go to John Paul II Ward 2 at St Vincent de Paule residence.
I will miss the residents – all of those pleasant people living with dementia. They built a community between them, and apart from the odd argument – sometimes noisy ones – they take care of each other.
I will miss the staff of the ward who take care of the residents with great love and professionalism. They do not go the extra mile while doing their work. They go an extra five or 10 miles instead. I heartily thank you all in the name of all those whom you serve so well.
But most of all I will miss my father, Ġużeppi. I took him to JPII at the beginning of the year. Last Thursday he decided to change homes once more; this time permanently. He went to the house of our Heavenly Father after staying with us for the past 91 years.
He did not leave us empty handed.
He never received a formal education, and consequently could neither read nor write. He was just able to sign his name in the form of a rough scribble, which – I have to admit – is more legible than mine.
He had his own telephone directory made up of symbols (instead of names) and numbers. However, he was happy that we were able to write names and not just scribble symbols.
He bought us a typewriter and sent us to private lessons to learn how to use it. When there were French lessons on TV, he bought us the programme records and then a record player to play them on.
He never tired working. His hands itched to do something else when he had a moment of rest. All the time he tried to find ways of doing things differently.
His eyes sparked whenever someone said something was too difficult to do. Those were the challenges he cherished. When he saw someone doing something, he wanted to do it, and do it differently.
He worked as a stonemason, a whitewasher, a plasterer, a carpenter, a plumber, an electrician, a sacristan…
Not all his innovative ways of doing things were a success, though. I remember when he wanted to polish the tiles in our house, which he planned and built himself. He melted all the extra candle pieces he got from church where he served for years as a sacristan after ‘retiring’ from his day job, and then spread the melting wax all over the floor. My mother was not amused one little bit.
He gave us our work ethic and sense of determination – one has to do what one has to do at the time one has to do it – full stop, and no arguing or lazing about. He gave us our sense of determination. The word ‘impossible’ was not in his vocabulary.
His humble origins helped him, and then us, to appreciate people for being people and not for having a position in life. He was always the first one to help anyone who needed his help. Altruism was part of his DNA.
One of the best lessons I learnt from him was the strong sense of humour he carried with him like a second skin. What is worth doing is worth doing with a sense of humour.
I had the privilege to be very close to him in his last years. During the past five years, I visited him daily, first at Casa Antonia, Balzan, and this year at San Vinċenz. I came to know him more and love him more.
Today I cannot visit him at our Father’s house. However, I know that He is taking care of my father more than I, my brother and my sister could ever do over here.
I love you Pa.
joseph.borg@um.edu.mt