I watched as the man who was like a second father to me, a man who was loved by everyone who knew him and affectionately referred to as “The Padre,” frantically placed his hand over his heart and fell backward.

            I bolted from my nightmare, sweating in terror that this man who had helped me through my most troubled, somber times in my life, seemed to be having a heart attack.

            It was early morning but I knew someone at the rectory where he worked would be there to answer the phone. I could not conceal the panic as my voice waivered, “Is Father Ron okay?” The voice on the other end angrily responded, “Who told you?”

            “No one told me anything,” I responded defensively, continuing, “I had a nightmare that Father Ron had a heart attack and I just needed to find out if he was okay.” My answer seemed to satisfy the woman and she asked me who is calling in a gentler tone than her original retort suggested. While we did not know each other, she clearly knew of me, which didn’t surprise me as Father Ron had told many people that I was the daughter he never had.

            Her tone further softened as she told me that he had been rushed to the hospital for an emergency bypass operation after suffering from a massive heart attack. “He’s in intensive care. They’re not sure yet whether he’ll pull through.”

            Forcing back tears, I thanked her for sharing the distressing news, packed a few things in a bag, then hopped in my car to begin the six-hour drive to see him. I knew it was unlikely that anyone at the hospital would let me in as I was not his biological daughter, but I had to at least try to be there for the man that had pulled me out of the depths of despair on more than one occasion during my teenage and early adult years, the man whom I admired probably more than anyone I had ever met, and whom I deeply loved like a father.

            I received the anticipated, “I’m sorry, only family can see Ronald at this time.” I asked her if, when he awoke from the surgical sedatives, if she would just let him know that I came to see him and wished him a full recovery. I sat down in the waiting area of the hospital to collect myself before embarking on my drive to a nearby family member’s home. To my surprise, the nurse came up to me and said, “Ronald would like to see you.”

            I sat holding his hand thinking that this was the last time I would ever see him. There were so many things I wanted to tell him, like how he had saved my life, how much he meant to me, how much I desperately wanted him to live, how much I loved him, but all the words came out as “I’m sorry this happened to you and I know you can pull through this.” I didn’t know any such thing. Honestly, I thought it was the last time I would ever see him and it was all I could do not to cry while I sat with him.

            As soon the door closed behind me, the tears flooded down my face. I could barely see as I walked through the hospital halls, unaware of anyone or anything. I don’t even know how I navigated the drive as my eyes were so strained from crying.

            Later that evening, I sat and wrote all the things I wanted to tell him, all the things I worried I would never get to say, and that I thought he would never hear or know. I returned to the hospital the next day and asked the nurse if she would mind giving my scribbled letter, as well as a poem I had written about him, to Father Ron.

            Weeks later, after Father Ron was discharged from the hospital, and was convalescing at a tiny cabin on the grounds of a convent, he phoned me and asked me to visit, which I promptly did. We sat and talked for hours and he shared, “When I didn’t know who anyone was, who I was, why I was going through this, and doubting whether I would even survive this horrible experience, I read your words over and over again. They reminded me that I was deeply loved and I knew that I needed to stay alive. Your words saved my life.”

            I knew that the surgery and care he received had saved his life, but I will never forget that he said my words had saved his life. Many years have passed and I’ve been fortunate to have received praise and awards for my writing, including the publication of and an award for the poem I wrote for him, but nothing has ever meant as much as his words. I could not imagine a greater honour: that someone I loved read my writing to get through their darkest hour and credited them for saving his life.

            I felt proud that I was able to repay the selfless kindness Father Ron had shown me over the years. He was always my “soft place to fall” and had saved my life on more than one occasion as I had struggled with the challenges I faced.

            Thinking back to when we first met, I recalled his gentle demeanor as he leaned forward over the desk of his office, awaiting answers to his questions. Being a seven-year-old child, eager to get a badge for Girl Guides, I can only imagine what I must have said that made him smile so much. But, I remember that we just “clicked.” From that moment on, I remember his pride as I experienced milestone after milestone in my life. “That’s my girl,” he would regularly tell me unless my parents were within earshot, then he would say, “that’s our girl.” That always made my heart sing. To the outside world, we had nothing in common, but to each other we were strangely alike. He was a father to me, and I was his daughter.

            Ron lived another few years after his heart surgery before he peacefully passed in his sleep. I will never forget him or the words he shared about how my writing impacted him, but I will also never forget some of his last words to me. He said, “I am a Catholic priest and you are no longer Catholic, but we are father and daughter. There are many beliefs that separate us, but many more that unite us. At our core, we are alike, we feel many of the same things, we have a common humanity that connects us. We are far more alike than we are different.”

            Those words have stayed with me my whole life. And, they don’t just apply to Father Ron and me. Ron was always wise and freely shared his wisdom with others. Even many years after he passed, his wisdom is never more profound than it is today. No matter our differences, we are more alike than we are different. We have a common humanity that connects us.

            I named one of the tallest trees in my orchard “The Padre.” Every year since I found “The Padre” apple tree, it has produced plentiful amounts of apples that taste like drinking the most intensely-delightful apple lemonade, both sweet and tart. Father Ron and I shared both the sweet and the bitter experiences in life, and they both deepened our bond.