I finally watched Meryl Streep work her big screen magic in "The Iron Lady." It was late at night. In bed. Jimmy surrendered to sleep pretty early on. It's not a fast-paced thriller. Nor an action-adventure dude flick. At least not in the traditional sense. As Britain's first woman prime minister, there was nothing slow or inactive about Margaret Thatcher. Because all I have is two thumbs, that's all I can physically give the movie. But three thumbs up would be more appropriate. Bringing together two of the world's most powerful women under one celluloid roof to tell the simple human story of a complex and groundbreaking point in the history of politics made for a surprisingly touching film. Not to mention enlightening. And vulnerable. The point of the whole thing hits home for me. The reminder that regardless of how we feel about the politics and opinions of people in power, it behooves us to remember that they are, at the end of every day, still people. Like me. Like you. We will all age. Live with regrets. Miss our loved ones when they die. And be left with our fading memories for company.
My favorite line of the movie came about after a scene in which a female admirer approaches an aged Thatcher at the end of a dinner held in her home. The woman wishes to impress upon Margaret the importance of her accomplishment, her empowerment. Though senile dementia has begun to have its way with her, the one-time leader of Great Britain says with startling presence of mind, "Well, it USED to be about trying to DO something. NOW it's about trying to BE someone." I had to repeat that scene a few times and take down those words. So apropos of everything these days. Image over substance. It's hard to argue such a fine straight-arrow point. So I won't.
With that in mind, the following letters are for a few folks who have impressed me with their doing . . . though most of the world undoubtedly knows them not. They blow even the best, most popular, singers on "American Idol" out of the water with their steadfast efforts. I believe Meryl and Margaret would agree.
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Dear Family-of-Three leaving the oncology building this past Monday:
Thank you for allowing me a rare glimpse into your joy after what has surely been a harrowing journey of diagnosis, chemo, hair loss, nausea, fear, disappointment and struggle. I'm not sure if you were sister, brother and mom, or another combination of close kin, but the sameness of your features and your builds, beautiful Asian lines of an origin I could not quite identify, told me you shared strong blood ties. I see you, the patient, the young woman sporting the new 1/4-inch growth of hair (I remember this length on my own head after my infamous head shave in my 3oth year. Do you think it feels at all like rabbit fur?). Your scalp bearing the deep etch of a long surgical scar. But it was your indescribable smile which struck at my core. And the grins of your companions, so light, so dependent upon your cheerful presence, as they touched your arm and walked as if on air along the sidewalk with you.
I am reminded of my brother's battle with cancer. The hoops through which his insurance had him jump. How frail it made him for a time. The uncertainty of it all. His determination to choose his own treatment through research and careful consideration of a possible future return. And the victory of which we all partook when the invader within was whipped into submission. It was as indescribable as your scene.
Congratulations on your good news. And I hope and most sincerely pray that your hair will grow straight and lush all the way down to your waist . . . and that your perpetual smile will cause wonderfully permanent lines in the planes of your lovely face.
--Your Silent and Celebratory Onlooker
Dear E.W. Hodges:
Thank you for the first, and probably only, cross pendant that I will ever wear around my neck in this lifetime. Though I never met you, I feel as if I at least lived in the same small town and watched you live your simple life of faith with your husband and 9 children. It was your granddaughter who told me about you. And your granddaughter who had your engagement ring reworked into a beautiful cross by an artist friend of hers. And your granddaughter who reconnected with me across the vastness of time and miles through a social website called Facebook -- something you most likely had no knowledge of in your 92 years.
She felt led to send me your ring because she knew me for a period of time when she was but a girl and I yet a toddler. We shared a unique childhood of which we can both fully understand and empathize. Now, here we are in the 'over 40' crowd but still a bit far off from the decades you spanned. I know you loved Christ, read your bible, enjoyed poetry, gardened . . . and you married a farmer. Before you passed on, you shared insightful and impactful years with your granddaughter. On your death bed, you let her know how very proud she made you feel. She has not forgotten that. She has not forgotten you. Nor did she ever forget me.
When I touch the pendant hanging from the fine silver chain, resting against the warm skin of my living body, I think of you, bending down over a row of vegetables ready for harvest, or leaning in to allow a rose to graze your cheek. Maybe quoting a piece of scripture just memorized, or a favorite verse. Cooking, cleaning, laundering, praying and LIVING for 9 little ones put in your care. I know how careworn you must have become. The numerous trials heaped upon your maternal heart by your brood as they left behind their wobbly legs and innocence for the long sturdy strides of a hard race. I look at this old Polaroid picture of you and your betrothed in front of a waxy-green wall of magnolia leaves, and know your smile so late in your hard life is genuine. One day, I hope to have such a picture with such a smile for my future generations to enjoy. I hope that my hardship transforms my soul in the same wondrous way that yours did. I feel bound to you. And I am all the better for it.
--Your Admiring Extended Family Member in Him
Dear Pastor Rodney:
Thank you for the little-church-that-could. Also known as The Church at Cross Point. I realize that you are not solely responsible for the formation of this specific body of believers. Nor would you ever wish to claim any glory for its continued success as a place of fellowship and worship for a unique band of brothers and sisters. But it is a success. Small in numbers though it may be.
If even the single sparrow is counted, then each and every man, woman and child who passes through our double-glass doors and crosses over our polished concrete floors is numbered and tracked. Be they believer or non-believer, they enter a holy place utilized with compassionate grace-filled intention. They enter a place of family, of friendships, of musicians, of those without an innate sense of timing, of college students, of artists, of eccentrics, of intellectuals, of professionals, of unemployed, of varied ethnic backgrounds, all bound by a common draw to an uncommon destination. It is a thing of beauty that never tires me in the looking each Sunday morning. Each once-a-month Friday with the women and children of our community who are without the basics of shelter and security. Each gathering of ladies. The wedding of my second child. The fertile soil from which my treasured trio of Earth Divas sprung.
And I think of a man who holds babies in his arms and is quick with his wit and welcoming to challenges even when internally he might wish to drag his heels just a bit. A man who refuses to fill his belly until after every person has filled their own plate at least once; he'll make a run for fried chicken and pizza if he determines the loaves and fishes are not multiplying in plentiful fashion. A man who travels across oceans to assist Liberians who wish to regain their moral compass in all aspects of social life after being torn asunder by civil war for so long. (I applaud the small justice of a guilty verdict just last week against the ex-president of Liberia, Charles Taylor, for crimes against humanity.) A man who bares his weaknesses before a congregation each week with humility, humor and heart. A man who realizes there is a far bigger picture than his one corner of the painting. And he is okay with that. And just does as he can, purple ties, Harley leathers and all. And desires to do more if it is within his field of purpose. And once intimidated me into silence before I was capable of seeing him as he was, as he is. I'm fairly certain that there are moments he wishes he could again cause a silence to fall upon me.
Sorry, pastor. That time has come and gone. Grin and bear it. You are stuck with this attendee of seven years. You'll just have to stick that in your pipe . . . and pray on it.
--Your Punctual Parishioner and (dys)Functional Friend
