While my biological father was alive, I always struggled to find a balance between respect for the fact that at least here on earth he brought me into the world but was not the man who raised me. That great man was Father Ronald Pecci, our Franciscan priest who served at my home parish, Saints Rita and Patrick’s Church.
I thank God every single day for the blessing of having Fr. Ron in my life. He was assigned to our church when I was in the eighth grade.
Our home life was a dysfunctional disaster of rampant alcoholism and terrible abuse. We were so poor that utilities were often shut off. Our family very dangerously used a stove that doubled as a house heater and clothes dryer. Necessity is the mother of all invention as they say, so we hung wet clothes on hangers using the drop ceiling as the hook.
We blasted the burners, heat rises, and you have a clothes dryer. My old man gambled away his paycheck every single Saturday night after a drunken night of cards with “friends” on Saturday nights, which meant money was constantly tight and food was scarce.
Then came Father Ron into my life, thank God. There are no accidents. A coincidence is when God chooses to remain anonymous. No doubt the good Lord’s hand was moving Fr. Ron to my neck of the woods when I needed it most.
My Mom always made sure I went to school and church, where I became an altar boy and lector. Fr. Ron took me under his wing. He wasn’t the typical “man of the cloth.” He was a biology/chemistry major who loved the Beach Boys and had lived in California. I’m sure he was a bit of a hippie. He was also young, in his mid-30’s, when he was assigned to our church.
Our mother most definitely saw the need to make sure I spent more and more time with the church and Fr. Ron and less time at a horrific home. For that, I love her deeply and thank her spirit for that. It saved my life.
This positive and passionate priest truly lived St. Francis’s vow of personal poverty as being something to be sought after the same way the material world pursues wealth. He wore Birkenstock sandals while shoveling snow in the winter, drove a beat up Chevy Cavalier with almost 200,000 miles on it, and wore the same L.L. Bean red winter coat for all the years I knew him.
Fr. Ron was rich in unconditional love, he showed it to me on a daily basis, and taught me exactly what it meant and was. He taught me the basics of living, something a loving father does.
Fr. Ron taught me how to drive a car in that beat up Chevy Cavalier. When I excitedly showed him my learner’s permit, he immediately tossed me the keys, smiled, and said. Let’s drive!”My parents never even owned a bank account. Like many living in poverty, they lived paycheck to meager paycheck, got money orders to pay bills, or used cash.
Fr. Ron hired me to do construction and handyman jobs around the church, and paid me approximately $35 per week. Instead of letting me blow the cash, he marched me right to the bank, helped me open an account, and taught me how to manage money. He even bought me presents on my birthday, something I never got at home.
When I left home to attend the S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications at Syracuse University, Fr. Ron is the only one to send me mail. I wish I still had those handwritten letters. I was the most popular student on the third floor of Kimmel Hall when Fr. Ron sent a care package, which I of course shared with all my friends.
Following college graduation, he gave me a copy of Thomas Merton’s “The Seven Storey Mountain” before I left to live overseas in London to study a politics and law program in England. Fr. Ron most definitely planted the seed of possibly becoming a Franciscan.
He also insisted I visit Assisi if I happened to venture to Italy. I most definitely did.
The most important thing my “real” father did for me was simply being present. At all the most memorable points in my life, Fr. Ron was always there. Sometimes, as a parent the most important thing we can do is simply just “show up.” That’s half the battle in raising kids the right way.
When my mother died, Fr. Ron drove all night long to deliver the eulogy. When I won my third term as the Erie County Comptroller, Fr. Ron was there to deliver the opening prayer for the swearing-in ceremony.
I miss his weekly phone calls that always began with “Hey champ….” He made me feel loved, protected, cared for, and important. I hope and pray I can be the same paternal rock for our children.
Fr. Ron died two years ago, on April 11th, 2022. That’s the day my father died. It shattered my heart. Every day, I still look at my phone and hope to see his caller ID, asking me how my day was, how my wife Ashley is doing, or how work is going. I miss talking to my “old man” who taught me how to be one.
While I miss him deeply and terribly, I can honor his spirit and life by trying to live mine the same way he did. I understand that’s impossible. Fr. Ron was a Saint on earth. I fail miserably living up to that standard every day. I try my best.
This past Father’s Day, I not only give thanks for my father, Fr. Ronald Pecci, but I’m also incredibly grateful for the struggle that brought him into my life.
The actor Jason Lee summed that up brilliantly in the movie “Vanilla Sky” when talking about giving thanks for our struggles: “One day you'll know what love truly is. It's the sour and the sweet. And I know sour, which allows me to appreciate the sweet.”
If my home life weren’t plenty sour, I never would have bonded the way I did with the sweetest, strongest, most kind, and loving man in the world.
For that, I feel love and gratitude this Father’s Day.