Some called him Ron, others Fr. Barnes or Fr. Ron. I called him "Teacher" when I first met him outside the classroom in June 2004. That was when I visited him at his residence during his illness.

            In the autumn of 2003, I signed up for the course on The Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius with some consternation, primarily because I had already signed up for another course on Sacramental Theology. As a part-time student I had never managed more than one course at a time before, but felt the need to do so as I was starting Annotation 19th with a group of enthusiastic parishioners in my parish. As much as I loved Ignatius’ Spiritual Exercises I thought I should learn some intellectual aspect of his teaching. It was my first course with Regis and the last one "Teacher" taught.

            What impressed me about "Teacher" was not just his profound understanding of the Spiritual Exercises, his ability to make connections with the life experience of Ignatius and with the daily human life experience, but that he had never treated any question from the students lightly. A female student once asked, “Why should we obey the will of God? It seems rather oppressive. Where did Ignatius make such a suggestion?”  I was not the only student who raised an eyebrow with that question. "Teacher" simply said he would look into it. And he did. He addressed the question the following week. He had checked the writings of Ignatius and agreed with that student that Ignatius had only used that phrase ‘obey the will of God’ twice. “Perhaps we over-emphasize this regard.” He then went on to explaining the meaning of that clause.

            At the time of writing my final paper I was still struggling with many questions. The 15 pages were filled before I could even touch those areas. I appended another five pages trying to differentiate the various states: depression, desolation, dryness in prayer, desert experience and dark night of the soul. I heard that there were some teachers who would just finish reading the maximum limit of pages and leave the rest. "Teacher", despite the unexpected health set-back at that period, read my appendix and wrote copious explanatory notes for me in the blank space.

             He engaged students in discussions not only in the classroom, but was also most helpful and responsive when contacted by e-mail with questions or comments. Some of the examples are printed here (click here to open in separate window). We continued to keep in touch electronically after the course. He indicated to me that he suffered some health setback and was hospitalized soon after the course was over.  His mesothelioma diagnosed just over 5 years previously had relapsed. He had to receive a series of radiation therapy and was much weakened by this. At that point I happened to be in Toronto for a two-day Pathology workshop. The arrangement to meet was very tentative because he was not sure about his energy level from day to day. And I had promised him that the visit would be brief.

            It was a beautiful late spring afternoon when I visited the Jesuits’ residence at Huron Street. I decided to walk from the downtown conference site with my backpack. On the way there I picked a small bunch of very fragrant Mock-Orange from the school yard near his house. He came to the door when I rang, a lot thinner than when he was in the classroom. After letting me in he continued to load dishes in the dishwasher to start a wash. We then sat outside on the porch, talking a bit about things randomly. He told me about his medical condition, how he could feel a lump in his upper abdomen, and that his appetite was deteriorating. We both knew that the tumor was growing. At one point he glanced at a distance and sighed, “It will be the same all over again!” He must have gone through quite a bit the first time he went for treatment.  I suggested eating ice cream, which he said he liked and was able to swallow. “Well, we can’t just eat ice cream could we?” He was surprised that a doctor would prescribe such an imbalanced diet. I smiled and shrugged my shoulders, “Does it matter? Just enjoy what you like.”

            He said he could no longer read theology books, only novels. I had a book on El Camino de Santiago de Compostela with me in my backpack. We stayed on that topic for a while. He told me how he used to frequent the lakeshore of Toronto. He also loved listening to classical music. When he was young his father loved to listen to opera with him. He wished he had learned a musical instrument.

            Not wishing to tire him out, I bid him goodbye, but took a snapshot of him against the late afternoon sun. I will always remember his look. He was like the setting sun sending out the last rays of gentle warm glow, declining as I gazed. Before I departed I saw the notice of John English’s passing on the refrigerator. "Teacher" quickly got a small piece of paper for me to write down the time and place for the memorial service in Guelph. Little did he realize that what was written in the back of the paper was the "Grateful Examen" (opens in separate window) which I later practiced and shared with others in my parish.

            Well, even in his weak state "Teacher" would not allow me to walk back all the way to the hotel but insisted on driving me. There were three Hondas in the parking lot; he took me in one that still had a new car smell. On the way he explained how he was disappointed with the American cars. Passing by the hospital he attended downtown he lamented to me about the inefficiency of the staff there. That was the last time I saw "Teacher" before he became so weak that he had to be transferred to the Jesuit infirmary Rene Goupil, in Manresa, Pickering early July.

            It so happened that I had booked my annual retreat in Manresa that summer. My spiritual director also resided in Rene Goupil. I dropped in to see "Teacher" in room 13 before I began my retreat. He had just moved in. Every sound outside in the corridor seemed to echo and amplified in that room. With the door closed, I sang him the hymn “Your Love is finer than Life” with the ambition to tune him off his bodily suffering. I got choked up half way through but managed to finish it anyway. "Teacher" calmly commented, “You don’t sing too badly.” I burst into laughter through my tears. I asked if he knew the tune. It’s a fairly well known song but I asked if he knew it. Of course he did, “It’s a psalm you know.” He never let go a chance to teach. He then pointed out his CDs and audio system in the room, “I can’t even listen to music anymore.”

            He would be reading occasionally during the daily mass. His voice was strong and clear. One would never have guessed that he was dying from a terminal illness.

            That summer, the maple trees were infected diffusely by virus, most of the leaves were affected by black spots. It was during this retreat that I saw the blessing and beauty in disease and sufferings, and learned how God could love through all these imperfections.

            Most days after supper, "Teacher" would sit in the garden staring at the setting sun, sometimes for hours. Only when it got almost completely dark would he return to the infirmary with his cushion. Though it was warm he usually wore a loose sweater. I love watching the sunset too. However, I refrained from going out during that retreat.

            After that retreat each time when I visited my spiritual director I would drop in to see "Teacher" or ran into him sitting by the fire in the common room. Once he asked me for the photo that I took, as a possible one for his obituary.  I sent copies to him and got a written note back, thanking me for the trouble taken, but was resentful of my way of forecasting his illness to come. At that point I knew he was still struggling.

            The last time I saw him he was sitting by his bed with a large plastic bowl in his lap, waiting to bring up what little he could swallow. He gently replied that he could not take their soup; anything with oil would induce him to vomit. I asked why would he not let the kitchen staff know. He lamented that he could not keep repeating himself. On the table by his bed was a tray with a plate of dry bread and some very unappetizing, mushy food. He had a whole box full of cans of ginger ale by the floor of his room. “The doctor asks me to drink these.” My heart was full of sadness and compassion for him when I left. That was my last direct contact with him

            I delivered a few types of home-made soup to the kitchen for him at one point. He left a message at my home phone after. His stomach couldn’t agree with these either. It also appeared that the kitchen staff got quite excited over the change of their routine.

            Shortly before his passing I saw him in my gospel contemplation at the scene of the birth of Jesus. It was very vivid; I was assisting Mary in the delivery of Baby Jesus. Yet the scene suddenly changed. I seemed to be delivering "Teacher" through the tunnel from this life to the next. Then Mary, Mother of God, came and took over from me. It was so consoling to me that I had  to send an e-mail to my spiritual director immediately asking him to print it for "Teacher". Apparently he was still with all his faculties at the time. He took the note and read it quietly to himself. The second reading at his funeral mass Romans 8:14-23 echoed the same sentiment. Yes, ‘Teacher’ has passed from the dusk of this world to the dawn of next. I trust he will continue to watch over and help his students, colleagues and fellow Jesuits from where he is now.