At age 13, I did a deep dive into the world of J.R.R. Tolkien. I fell in love with The Hobbit, and then burned through my dad’s paperback set of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. I was so sucked into the Tolkien realm that when I finished reading the last Lord of the Rings book, The Return of the King, I felt bereft. I wanted to remain immersed in pages filled with gnarled trees, harrowing ringwraiths, and stoic, steadfast heroes.

If there was no more to read, I at least felt compelled to write to the author and thank him for writing his tales of hobbits, dwarves and elves. “I think he died a year or so ago,” my dad told me when I asked if Tolkien was still alive. I was crestfallen.

The mysterious Strider, Ranger of the North, earned my admiration from the start. His ability to protect the hobbits from the terrifying ringwraiths proved that he was a man with in-depth experience handling the forces of evil. As the story develops, his true identity is revealed as Aragorn, destined to be king of two kingdoms.

Aragorn’s quiet sense of integrity, and unshakeable dedication to protecting the forces of good from the perils of darkness captivated my heart. Peter Jackson’s films of the Lord of the Rings felt like a good match with Viggo Mortensen playing Aragorn.

Each of us lives our own life adventure. Life in the face of profound autism can sometimes feel daunting if not perilous. My younger son’s difficulties in processing sensory input, and his struggles to communicate, made life extremely frustrating for him, and for us as a family trying to help him navigate the world in a happier, healthier way. As son Sean entered his early teens, the challenges in interfacing with any element of the world besides the comfort of a fluffy blanket on his own bed led him, and thus our whole family, to be virtually trapped at home.

We were standing at the edge of despair. Countless hours, dollars and tears were spent working with all sorts of teachers and therapists to help our son. There were capable and beloved helpers and teachers over the years, but in the big picture, we were still stuck with people having to shrug their shoulders and say, “We don’t know how else to help.”

At our time of greatest need, a magical, brilliant young teacher appeared in our lives. Not only did he have a natural gift for working with special needs students—including those with little or no spoken language like my son—but he also radiated a spirit of quiet integrity and protectiveness. He conveyed through his actions and words his determination to help our son Sean reach his best potential, and that he would not falter from that goal.

His presence changed our son’s and our lives at a seismic level. He gave us the gift of hope, a feeling we were desperately close to losing completely.