Yes, it’s another Festa, but this one really makes satisfying sense. Giuseppe is Joseph in English,  and this day celebrating St. Joseph is Father’s Day. Here in this Catholic canton of Ticino, it is a holiday. All schools and shops are closed, but church doors are open for the Holy Mass which took place in every village here. I am part of our little church choir, and today we sang a hymn in San Giuseppe’s honor: One of the stanzas is: “O Padre prudentissimo,/ esempio di sapienza,/ conserva in tutti gli uomini/ giustizia ed innocenza” Oh prudent Father, example of wisdom, preserve in all mankind, justice and innocence.
I was thinking of Wordsworth’s description: “Father! to God himself we cannot give a holier name.” As my husband Giancarlo and I are joined in “holy matrimony”, there does seem to be a sacred nature to the role of Father. Our village priest in his homily today spoke of ‘generating descendants’. Giancarlo has done that with the birth of our two sons, and he has generated a heritage of love and honor, generosity and care.

I always have said that I am so proud to be known as Dr. Zeiler’s daughter. I praise and honor my father, for whom I hold nothing but the highest respect and love and admiration. He worked his way through medical school playing jazz piano, which sums up the marvelous complexity of his personality: the scientific, intellectual, perfectionist high achiever who has the swinging soul of a jazz pianist. He has given all of us, we 5 siblings, such an example of constant love and generosity, constant learning and curiosity, constant drive and dedication, constant determination and diligence. He rose to the top of his profession, becoming President of the American College of Pathologists and then the President of the World Association of Societies of Pathology & Laboratory Medicine. Even now, at 92, he keeps up with all his medical journals as well as The New York Times, the Economist, the Atlantic, the Wall Street Journal. And he always is ready and eager to help when help is needed. I stayed with him in his home in Chicago in November; early one morning I found him at his desk, in his bathrobe, poring over a medical book looking for possible solutions to a close friend’s medical dilemma. His only regret is that my Mother is not here to share his life; she died 23 years ago and that is his, and our, sorrow.

My father’s parents were such loving, solid souls, deeply rooted in religion. I have a card that my Grandmother sent me for my Birthday, the message is that God is Love. We are descendants of love and we carry that forth. To the Fathers in my life, I am grateful.