When I first saw Ron Dotson standing in the driveway of the first Bedlam Farm, he shyly introduced himself and said he had just read my Thomas Merton book “Running To The Mountain.” He is very interested in Merton, as I am.
The book was about my decision to leave my everyday life behind and set out on a spiritual path, as Merton did when he was young. This transformed my life. Ron said he wanted to meet me and see where I lived.
“Is it okay to take a photo?” he asked Maria. “Sure,” she said.
When I first saw him in his Marine cap and Vietnam War badges, Ron looked nothing like me. He is small, thin, quiet, and very soft-spoken. He looked like the older veterans I saw marching in Memorial Day parades, but nowhere else in my life. He had badges and symbols all over him. I’ve never worn a badge of any kind.
(Meeting the donkeys, who loved him instantly, and then Zip.)
I knew Ron was a decorated Marine from the badges and cap he wears – he is very proud of his Marine sign and the patches – but I didn’t know until later that he was a hero in Vietnam, a Navy medic assigned to help and save wounded soldiers in combat.
One day, nearly half of his unit was killed in fighting with the Viet Cong, and he was shot three times while risking his life to save others; he saved many and very nearly died.
He was gravely injured and brought back to America for long and complex treatment. He wears the badges and insignia in memory of all the other men in his unit who did not ever come home. He never speaks of that time except when asked and has no bitterness or trauma about it.
It was God’s will, and he accepted God’s decisions and a sense of duty to our country. He didn’t just talk the talk, as so many people do. He walked the walked into Hell and back.
(Ron and Sarrah Harrington, Executive Director of the Cambridge Food Pantry)
This experience changed his life, he says. When he came home and healed, he decided to devote his life to doing good, which is what he has done.
Ron’s family once had a home in Vermont, and he visits once a year. After reading the book, he thought of me and felt we connected spiritually. He knew I was close by and was curious about me.
At the time, I was doubtful that we did have much in common. Ron was so different from me, and I was at a challenging point in my life, something he sensed. He saw me as a spiritual brother, which surprised me and still does.
We chatted briefly, and he told me he was a pastor in a small church in Ohio. He visited older people in nursing homes and assisted care facilities like I did with my therapy dogs. The next day, he, Maria, and I met again at a small restaurant nearby and then again at the local bookstore, Battenkill Books, by accident. Unlike me, Ron is a devout Christian. He believes that God and Jesus watch over him and guide his life. It was meant to be if we met several times in a few days.
He thought there was a reason we had met, and oddly, I had the same feeling. At the time, a movie made from one of my books had upended my life, and uninvited visitors and even stalkers who upended my privacy. But Ron was not one of those – his deep faith brought him to see me and say hello, and then he disappeared from my life and returned to Ohio.
I usually only hear from Ron when he visits, although this year, he joined a Zoom group for my blog readers and me, and he listens politely to people who like him very much but rarely agree with him.
I enjoy seeing him once a week, even if he rarely speaks. We often smile at one another.
I heard from him again for a long time when he returned to Vermont with one of his sons. I invited them out to lunch, and I was again surprised by how comfortable we were with one another and how my spiritual life connected to some degree with his religious one.
Ron came again this week; this time, it seemed like a joyous reunion. He follows my blog, hoping to one day accept Christ as the Son of God. If I write things that bother him—I’m certain I do—he has never said so.
On this visit, he saw our animals again—the donkeys loved him instantly, and they can be picky. I took him to the food pantry, and the volunteers there liked him instantly (it took them a while to get used to me; some still haven’t). They got him right away.
We went to lunch at a diner near Hoosick Falls and talked for two hours. He felt much more like a brother to me than a stranger. This got to me. I have a brother, but we haven’t seen or spoken to one another for years. I can’t imagine talking to him for several hours.
Last year, I brought Ron to the Mansion. Everywhere we go, people love him instantly. He always blesses and then chatters with them. I even got him to Sue’s Floral Shop, and he and her boyfriend almost fell in love over their passion for Ohio State football.
He is every man in many ways but also safe and kind. He always asks if he can say grace at lunch or dinner, and I always say sure. I like hearing it; he always makes it a point to bless me and Maria. Perhaps someone is listening. He is happy to enter my life and then disappear.
Everyone who sees him is drawn to him and his openness. I love our conversations; they are meditations all of their own. He is the kind of person people trust. He is also a walking scholar of the Bible.
We hug now when we see each other and when he leaves. Like me, he is a photographer who photographs everything he sees. He asked if he could come to my study to take my photo, and I said no. He got it.
I mentioned several times that I’m 17 years younger than Maria and Ron is 15 years older than his wife. We had an honest talk about how we feel about that.
He also had open-heart surgery and has diabetes.
I’ve never had  that conversation with another man.
(He went straight to the Chapel next to the food pantry and asked for a photo; he wanted to keep this one.)
I can’t think of anyone other than Maria, who I talk to as quickly and efficiently as this man. Ron told me that he prays every morning that I accept Jesus. He didn’t mind that I didn’t, but he hoped I would one day. I wasn’t annoyed; I was flattered that he cared.
I told him I was just not cut out for the dogma of organized religion. I’m a poor follower, and I will never identify myself in a way that is so narrow as red or blue.
I told him he wasn’t the first pastor who prayed for that; I doubted he would be the last. I am a long-time follower of Jesus, I tell him, but he is not my God or a God to me. My God is inside of me.
Ron’s life reminds me again and again that trouble isn’t something to whine about but transcends and can turn into good. He is the man I’ve always looked for—the one I can talk to whenever I need to speak to someone.
We rarely talk about politics, but when we do, it is without resentment, anger, or stress. We are very different in our politics, but not in what matters—our drive to keep working to be better humans and help less fortunate people.
I know he won’t give up on getting me to Jesus, but he won’t give up on me either. On this trip, he gave me two books, “The Case For Christ” by Lee Strobel and “Why I Am A Christian” by John Stott.
I’ve never appreciated people trying to draw me to their faith or proselytize. This never bothers me with Ron. He means the best to me and is happy to love me as I am. I feel the same way about him.
I am very proud to call Ron my friend, and I hope he comes to visit often. We talk now by text and sometimes by phone. I doubt I will ever see him in Ohio. He had dinner here the other night, and Maria came to love him as much as I have. We are so different yet so much alike. We share the same idea of what is essential in life, not politics.
Ron has taught me much about friendship, loyalty, and tolerance. I am different from many people I meet here, but friendship is not about being the same; it’s about getting past the differences and going right to the heart. I’m sure that Ron and I have done this and will continue doing it for the rest of our lives.
I will not lose this friendship; I’ve lost too many others.
