My family generally likes St. Joseph. I mean, my parents are pretty convinced that he’s the only reason they got married, they only have live children because of St. Joseph’s hospital, etc. But for some reason we have not only one, but TWO beheaded St. Joseph statues at our house right now. One met with an unfortunate accident while being taken out of the nativity scene (SHUT UP I know it’s April but you know what? Until like last week we were under six feet of snow), and the other? Well, John came downstairs this morning, looked out the door and went, “Oh, my.”
Poor St. Joseph. I mean, you were the earthly father of Christ, but it was hardly an easy gig. You put up with the whole virgin birth thing, try to teach the Son of Man to use a hammer, and then aren’t even mentioned after the first few chapters of the canonical Gospels. I mean, as long as you’re messing with the story, John, why don’t you add something about Joe in there, huh?
And then we can’t even keep your head on.
St. Joseph? I thought you might like to know that Mary is watching from the other side of the porch and feels very badly for you. And she wants you to know that she’s glad you didn’t divorce her quietly. She’ll try to stop the alarmingly large hawks that come RIGHT UP TO OUR HOUSE from mistaking your head for a small furry creature and stealing it.