Reflection by fr. JLucas. Jan 27, 2026

My rectory sits beside St. Patrick’s Primary School, a Catholic school tucked into the inner city of Bay Farm Road and Waterhouse. Many people lower their voices when they say that name—Waterhouse—as if danger itself might overhear them. Some call it a bad man’s place.

For me, it is heaven.

Every Thursday, because the school falls under my jurisdiction, I celebrate Mass for the students in our church. That is the one day the church is full to capacity. Not Easter. Not Christmas. Thursday. Children fill the pews, spill into the aisles, and bring life that no incense can manufacture.

Yesterday was no different—except it was games day. Every child came dressed in their house colours: yellow, blue, and red. The church looked less like a solemn basilica and more like a joyful battlefield of school pride. And I loved it.

The Gospel was from Mark: “No one lights a lamp and hides it.” So I asked them a dangerous question:
“Which house should Father join?”

Every house roared.
Not politely.
Not one at a time.
But all at once.

So I told them, “The house that comes last—I will join you, and we will help you shine even brighter.”
They didn’t mind that answer. They were already shining.

Later that day, after chaplaincy duties, I joined the games. I didn’t get the chance to run like I promised—my knees issued a pastoral warning—but I took some shots instead. Shots I now deeply appreciate. The children cheered. Parents ran. Teachers shouted encouragement like seasoned coaches. The whole Waterhouse community vibrated with children’s voices from St. Patrick’s.

In that moment, I understood something about fatherhood and male presence.

These children are watching.
They are listening.
They are learning what it means to stand, to cheer, to pray, to belong.

When the games ended, one loud teacher commanded, “Everybody stand still for prayer.” And you don’t want to see it unless you’ve seen it—every child folding their hands, even some parents following suit. Then we sang the national anthem, “Jamaica, Land We Love.” I sang loudly, proudly—like a Jamaican who knows he has been adopted by grace.

We dismissed cheerfully. No drama. No chaos. Just joy.

In a place many fear, children are becoming lamps.
In a community often labelled broken, light is loud.

And maybe this is what fatherhood looks like—not possession, but presence.
Not control, but consistency.
Men who show up. Brothers who stay. Mentors who cheer and pray and sometimes miss their run but still take the shot.

St. Patrick’s Primary is not just a school beside my rectory.
It is a reminder that the light of the world often shines first in places we have already written off.

And thank God—it is shining.

Note: If you want to see more picture come see our school.

Photos by fr.JLucas himself