L E T T E R S
The greatest lesson I learned in my life came from a man at the lowest point of his life: University philosophy professor Father Jim Leahy, C.S.C. Here’s the story. My first three years of college at a state university were a bust. I was adrift with no sense of direction. I entered the military. In the Army I eventually began taking courses on base from a nearby college, and began rehabilitating my beleaguered grades. Gradually I became very goal-driven, especially as I was the lowest-ranking soldier amid officers and non-coms in my classes. When discharged in 1965, I was accepted at the University of Portland. This is when I met Father Leahy, an excellent teacher and a tough grader — it was said he thought a C was a perfectly acceptable grade, a B might come if you worked very hard, but as for an A, dream on. Somehow a connection between us developed. I thrived in his classes, took as many from him as I could, and earned As. Maybe, I thought, I wasn’t the dullard I thought I was. I even set up a golf outing for him one weekend, during which he scored a holein-one, at which he was ecstatic. But things slowly changed with him. We were told Father was ill and often a substitute covered his classes. Early one morning,
He finished speaking and there was a silence. Usually an outpouring of sympathy is the typical response at this juncture, but I let him wait a moment, and then said that I was deeply honored to be in his presence at a time when God was testing him. He was incredulous. “What?” “This is nothing new,” I said. “Name me one saint who didn’t go through a living hell on earth. They were being tested. And God is testing you.” He muttered that he didn’t believe in God anymore, as if this would get him off the hook, but I told him I had seen for myself how he affected his students, opening up their minds and souls to God, and that his gift for teaching had to come from somewhere. He concurred, reluctantly; and a moment later our meeting ended. Soon he was sent back to Notre Dame, and I never saw him again. But I discovered from his friends that somehow I had gotten to him, and that his percep-
Portland 2
LETTERS POLICY We are delighted by testy or tender letters. Send them to bdoyle @up.edu. tion of himself had been changed that morning; he was no longer a drunkard beyond help, and there was a purpose to his life. He was desperately hungry for that affirmation, I think; starving for a self beyond his addiction. I graduated in 1966, earned a master’s in social work in 1968, and devoted my life to counseling because of that one special morning. My talk with Father Leahy pointed me to my own life’s calling. That morning, I think, he gave me his greatest pop quiz, his toughest final exam; he stretched me far beyond my own self-perception; and that is why he’s at the top of my list of people who changed my life. Thank you, Father. Tom DeJardin ’66 Portland, Oregon
PHOTOS COURTESY OF UNIVERSITY ARCHIVES
FR. JIM LEAHY, C.S.C.
after his class had been cancelled yet again, I was having coffee in the Pilot House. Father Leahy came in, unsteady on his feet, looking terrible. I got him coffee and breakfast and sat down to talk with him. He confessed he was alcoholic, had fallen off the wagon, and none of his AA buddies or friends had been able to get through to him. His spiritual advisor, however, had told him that the only group he had not reached out to for help was his students; and he was doing so now, reaching out to me. It was as if we had entered an altered state. The man I loved and respected dearly, the teacher who was my ideal, was baring his soul to me, right in the Pilot House. Our roles had completely changed. I listened intently, blocking out all distractions, noting that there had been no resignation in his voice; in fact, I detected some arrogance, a satisfaction that he was somehow beyond all our reach. The Army provides you with a crash course in human dynamics — the good, the bad, and everything in between. You are thrust into a matrix of leaders and wannabes, all trying to control you; learning how to sort wheat from chaff in conversation is essential. Occasionally you are confronted with working alcoholics with more stripes and bars than you have. Learning how to control conversations and change the dynamic was essential; listening to what is not said is critical. Father Leahy had, in essence, informed me that I would be no more successful at reaching him than anyone else. I kept listening, not saying a word, although he expected me to step in. Other students came by, but left quickly, sensing something intense in the air.