In requiem

A personal letter

Joseph Howard, photo 26 Dec 2022

Dear Friends,

This is not a post I ever wanted to write, but I write because this newsletter is a 21st century version of the local newspaper, and I am the editor.

We find ourselves turning to the Death Notices.

My third son, Joseph, passed away last Thursday. He was my son, my friend, my philosophical sounding board, and my literary adviser. By his presence, and the standard to which he held himself, he called me to be a better man.

We await the coroner’s report to find out, if possible, the cause of death.

But as I write through tears, I write not of his death, but of his life.

You have seen my last couple of posts on fulfillment. Joseph lived a fulfilled life. Although only 34, his life was full. Not full with goods, but full with what is good, with the true, the beautiful, and the good. While I talk about the transcendentals, Joseph lived a transcendent life. From an early age he had an appreciation of reality that still today exceeds my comprehension.

His apartment was filled with Russian literature, with the great philosophical works, and the works of the mythologists such as JRR Tolkien. His current project was to work through the history of ideas, starting with Plato, Socrates and Aristotle, through Augustine, Avicenna, Aquinas, Descartes, Kierkegaard, Heidegger (to name a few), and develop an understanding of each.

Joseph lived in the building where I have a Sydney apartment, so we would catch up every time I was there, which was frequently. We enjoyed many coffees and meals together: working up a response to prevailing theological or philosophical challenges, grappling with Pitirim Sorokin as I structure my next book, discussing the psychological insights of Dostoevsky or Chekov …

I recently asked if he had ready any Kafka.

“I’ve read The Trial,” he replied immediately, “quite an uncanny representation of society!” and then went on to say it was worth reading, and that he had a complete set of Kafka’s work.

I last saw Joseph just after Christmas when he visited the farm, and we continued to speak or text several times a week. The conversations were so rich that I told him how much I appreciated him, and our relationship, and he responded with “I love you, Dad”.

These became his final words to me.

I have no doubt he is with my mother in heaven, and continuing the dialogue with Plato, explaining to William of Ockham the flaw in his thinking, and laughing along with Cervantes. Joseph and I had been discussing the hysterical Don Quixote, and the power of the novelist to convey deep truth about the human condition.

Joseph was a man of profound faith. He saw the sacred and the holy around him in such a realistic manner he could not fully understand why it remained invisible to others. It was not possible to talk to him without him bringing up vocation and call in some manner. Every day for him was a search to find and do God’s will, and a surrender to whatever that may entail.

On Jan 19, just shy of his 35th birthday, Joseph was called home. His time was up. And he was ready. Although the grief is palpable, the grace is profound.

What a privilege I have to be able to look back on a rich life, a deep relationship, and, in the final days of his life, his focus on one thing: making sure his parents knew he loved them.

With my warmest regards

Anthony

Joseph Antony Howard, RIP