Good morning. For those who don’t know me, my name is Joey, and I am Joe’s oldest son. On behalf of my mother, and our entire family—including Dad’s eight children and his sixteen grandchildren—I want to thank you for being here to honor a man who was the bedrock of our lives.

I especially want to thank Fr. Ross and Fr. Almeter for their spiritual guidance and for being here today to help us celebrate my father’s life.

If there is one phrase that defines the life and the final days of my father, it is from the fourth chapter of St. Paul’s letter to the Philippians: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” For Dad, this wasn’t just a verse on a page; it was the quiet engine behind everything he did. It was the reason he could find humor when others would find despair, and the reason he could find peace even when he lost his voice.

For the last eight years, Dad and I shared a very specific Sunday ritual. Every week, he would email me his typed-out devotions, and I would publish them to his blog and send them out to his followers.

If I’m being honest… for a long time, I just treated it as an assignment. I was so busy with the mechanics of the task—the copying and the pasting—that I sometimes missed the ministry in the words. But over the last few weeks, I’ve been going back and reading what he left behind.

He spoke often about “vacare deo”—the Carmelite practice of making space for God. He believed that if you just cleared out the noise of the world, miracles had room to flow.

Dad wasn’t just a casual observer of the faith; he was a Lay Carmelite. He had made a formal, lifelong promise to God to live in allegiance to Jesus Christ through daily meditation and the Liturgy of the Hours. He spent his whole life preparing for his heavenly inheritance through the Sacraments. From his Baptism to his final Anointing, he was training his soul to rely entirely on that strength that comes only from Christ.

But Dad knew that a life of prayer is incomplete if it doesn’t lead to a life of service. In Catholic teaching, service to others is a mandatory expression of our faith. It is the imitation of Jesus, who came “not to be served, but to serve.”

Dad took that mission to heart. He didn’t just sit in the pews; he rolled up his sleeves. Whether it was serving on the board for Villa Marie Apartments, volunteering with the Salvation Army to make plans for building a new homeless shelter, or dedicating many years to the Parish Council at St. Mary on the Hill, he was always looking for ways to build up the kingdom.

He found great brotherhood and strength in his weekly Catholic Men’s group at Most Holy Trinity. For Dad, these weren’t just meetings; they were his way of living out the Gospel. He understood that to love God is to serve His people.

We saw that same strength and selflessness most clearly over these last six months. We watched Dad go from a healthy 74-year-old to being made frail and eventually losing his voice to cancer. But even when his voice was gone, he never had a “poor me” attitude. He chose to be happy. Right after his first chemo treatment, when most people would be headed for the bed, he wanted to go bowling. He insisted on being present in the moment.

Fr. Ross shared something with me recently that really changed how I looked at those months. He explained that Dad wasn’t just “fighting” a disease; he was carrying the cross for all of us through his bravery. By never complaining and by staying so steadfast, he lived out the conviction that nothing—not even death—could separate him from the love of God. He proved that even when the body is weak, the spirit is made perfect in Christ.

This brings me to the timing of Dad’s passing. On March 25th, this past Wednesday, Dad left us. In the Church, March 25th is the Solemnity of the Annunciation of the Lord. It marks the moment of the Incarnation—when God became man. As a Carmelite, Dad prayed to Mary constantly; she was the pillar of his spiritual life. It is no coincidence that he passed on the very day the world celebrates Mary’s “Yes” to God. It’s as if she was right there to lead him home on her special day, turning a day of Lenten penance into a “white-vestment” celebration of his life.

He died as he lived: in total alignment with the will of God.

If Dad were standing here today, looking out at my mother, his eight children, and his sixteen grandchildren, I think he’d leave us with a challenge based on that same strength:

First, choose to be happy. Not because life is easy, but because joy is a choice and a testament to your faith. Second, be present. Don’t get so caught up in the “to-do list” of life that you miss the grace happening right in front of you.

As we leave today, I want you to remember the source of that strength. Dad’s life was proof that we do not have to carry our burdens alone. When the world feels heavy or the cross feels too large, remember his favorite verse: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” That strength is available to us all, just as it was for him.

Dad, thank you for the wisdom, for your life of service, and for showing us how to carry a cross with a smile. We take comfort in knowing that you have claimed your inheritance, and that the Christ who strengthened you through your life has finally brought you home.