THE NIGHT ST. JOSEPH CHASED ME

When I was younger, I worked the overnight shift as a security guard at Madonna Heights, a school and residential program for adolescent girls whose lives had already become harder than they should have been.

My job was simple. Every hour, on the hour, I walked the hallways and checked the grounds.

Doors locked. Buildings secure. Nothing unusual.

The irony was that the person most terrified during these rounds was the security guard.

Madonna Heights was Catholic.

Very Catholic.

Which meant statues everywhere. Mary. Joseph. Jesus. Angels. Saints I could not have identified if you gave me three lifelines and access to the Vatican archives.

During the day, they probably looked peaceful.

At two in the morning?

Absolutely not.

At that point in my life, faith was barely on the radar. I wasn’t angry at God. I really didn’t think about Him much.

My soul was basically on airplane mode.

Which somehow made the statues worse.

I knew they were stone. I knew statues had a poor history of chasing people.

My brain understood this.

My body had not received the memo.

So every hour, picture a grown man in a security uniform, steel-toe boots, carrying one of those giant Maglite flashlights that could illuminate a football field and probably stop a medium-sized bear.

I would begin each patrol calmly.

Professional.

Guardian of the premises.

Then my flashlight would sweep across the Blessed Mother and suddenly I was speed-walking like I’d just remembered I left the oven on three buildings away.

Because I was convinced the statues moved when I turned my back.

Not much.

Just enough.

Mary’s head. An angel’s wing. One of the apostles taking a step.

I never actually saw any of this happen, which only proved how good they were.

But Saint Joseph was the worst.

He stood behind one of the buildings, about five feet tall, peacefully watching over the grounds.

I hated him.

Not the actual Saint Joseph. He seemed like a lovely man.

This Joseph.

Two-in-the-morning Joseph.

Every patrol, I came around the corner, raised my flashlight, and there he was.

Watching.

I would stop.

He would stop too, although technically he had never started.

Then I’d whisper:

“Okay. On three.”

One.

Two.

Three.

And I ran.

Full sprint.

Steel-toe boots pounding the pavement. Flashlight bouncing everywhere. Security professionalism abandoned.

A grown man fleeing through the darkness because the foster father of Jesus was allegedly gaining on him.

I never looked back.

Everyone knows that is when they get you.

I would reach the next building, catch my breath, straighten my uniform, and resume being the person responsible for everyone else’s safety.

This happened for months.

My family thought it was hilarious.

They were right.

More than thirty years later, I think about that statue differently.

If I had that job today, I would probably stop.

Stand there a minute.

Maybe say hello.

Knowing me now, I’d probably start telling him things.

These days I work at a church named after him.

I like to think he finds that funny.

Back then, faith felt like something that belonged to other people. I had careers to build, problems to solve, places to be.

Keep moving.

Do not stop long enough to ask questions you may not want answered.

And under no circumstances make eye contact with Saint Joseph.

That pattern lasted longer than the job did.

For years, I kept moving.

Through silence.

Past prayer.

Past surrender.

Past anything that suggested I might not be completely in control.

Eventually, life slowed me down.

A lot.

And when I finally began finding my way back to faith, there was no booming voice. No giant miracle. No moment where every doubt disappeared.

Just a strange sense that what I had been running past all those years had never gone anywhere.

Sometimes I think about that younger version of me racing past Saint Joseph in the dark.

I wouldn’t stop him.

He wouldn’t listen anyway.

I’d just watch him go.

Steel-toe boots.

Maglite bouncing.

Absolutely convinced something holy was chasing him.

And Saint Joseph still standing there.