My Morrie

Morrie.

Mitch Albom had "his" Morrie.

Everyone should have his own "Morrie" -- someone who you could sit with for hours on end, not necessarily talking, but just enjoying each other's presence.

I had my own "Morrie". His name was Emerardo Ladrera.

Rev. Fr. Emerardo Ladrera.

"Father", as everyone called him of course, was a short (less than 5 feet tall), old, charming priest whose thoughts and philosophy were way beyond his already advanced years. He used to be the Chaplain of the Faustino Legaspi Uy Colleges (also known as the Las Pinas Colleges), and he lived in a little room right beside the colleges' big chapel.

He was already technically retired as a priest, but since he knew of no other better way to live his life, he had gotten permission to continue celebrating Sunday Masses at the college chapel. My family and a few other families gathered together to support him by hearing the Masses he celebrated. I always served as his "sacristan", and sometimes doubled as a lector/commentator.

Father was a man with a very strong and charismatic personality -- somehow, one would always find oneself drawn to Father. I know I was. So much so that I found myself visiting him at least three times a week. It came to be a routine for us that everytime I got to his place, he was already sitting on the porch, waiting for me.

And there was always an empty chair right beside him.

We'd sit for hours. He'd teach me all about the church: Her history; Her best and darkest hours; Her mistakes and triumphs. He taught me about the Faith itself. I learned more about Christianity from him than from anybody else.

But it was not always about the church.

We'd talk politics. History. Relationships. Parents. Siblings. School and the educational system. Life. And Love.

We also talked a lot about ME: who I was, and who I could be.

Our talks always ended just as the first star started to shine in the sky. At this point, he would lean towards me and say "Now, make your confession..." And I would.

Father Ladrera always sent me home with a sense of peace and hope. Amazingly, I always had something to confess and seek forgiveness for.

And Father Ladrera knew this. And he was always ready to listen, to accept... and to forgive.

We all need a Morrie in our lives. Someone who you could sit down with and talk to and open up to.

Someone who would never judge you -- who would teach you without actually trying.

Someone who would give you a sense of peace and hope for things to come.

Father has long passed away, but sometimes, I swear that I could feel him lean over to me and whisper "Now, make your confession..."

And soon after that, I swear that I am overcome by an amazing sense of peace and hope.

I have a new Morrie now. My wife, Jennifer.

How about you? Who is your Morrie?