High School Reunion and Beatrice Bruteau

Adolescence for me meant pouring enormous energy into “normalizing” before I knew there wasn’t any “normal,” wearing the heavy armor of a shadowy, unreal self, trying desperately to be “cool.” Needless to say, I wasn’t eager to return for reunions, but finally got lured to one by the “bribe” of an award. Whenever what I’m reading is skillfully interwoven with my experience at the same time, I recognize God’s artistry—surely at play there.

In her book The Easter Mysteries, Beatrice Bruteau advocates transcending our descriptions, our “earthly treasure.” These descriptors may include “parent/grandparent, spouse/partner, daughter/son, doctor, teacher, attorney, chef, the family, profession, nationality, political party or club to which we belong. We rely on these identities to shore up our importance and self-respect. But Jesus’ assurance that we are beloved of God means we have nothing to fear, protect or defend. What could offer greater satisfaction? Our efforts for success and security fall painfully short compared to God’s over-riding care for us.

It’s good news, but hard to believe. Until I saw it in person. One of the girls in my class that I’d consider on a higher plane in the high school hierarchy was knock-down gorgeous (she later modelled), wealthy, with a mane of red hair. She understood the intricacies of make-up and wardrobe in such an advanced way that it made me look like a kindergartener beside a Ph.D. Let’s call her Brooke.

Another girl, equally beautiful, with a swirl of blonde hair and many boyfriends, we’ll name Susan. I admired her from afar and we probably never had a conversation of more than a few words.

Imagine my shock when these distant paragons arrived at the luncheon for our class. Brooke, with advanced Alzheimer’s, came in a wheelchair and was carefully settled at the table next to Susan, who’d grown used to feeding her friend. Brooke had apparently lost all filters, and would occasionally interject a chortle, a cuss word or a comment unrelated to the conversation. Susan had an advanced tremor, and joked about her aim with a fork or sippy cup for Brooke’s mouth. She shook visibly all the time, but kept up other conversations while she assured Brooke she was well taken care of.  Their behavior had apparently gone on for years; others seemed used to it, and ten older women adapted to an unusual lunch. As a 17-year old, I never could’ve predicted that those two could give me a profound model of tenderness and a lesson in easily disrupted expectations.

With another friend, I could’ve predicted she’d become a nurse, as she did, and all knew I’d someday be a writer. But this inversion blew apart my predictions, replaced by something far better: enormous respect for Brooke’s vulnerability, and the care Susan and several other friends had given her for years.

One constant remained: the deeply compassionate friend who’d organized, hosted, driven, gotten special food and remained in touch with all of us. The great grace which came to me as a terrified first grader, venturing into a big, new world, was finding her and becoming best friends. In the last few years, the friendship has rekindled, and it seems like our delightful conversation never pauses, even in four days together. Bruteau reminds us of Jesus saying that to be in God’s reign is to be a child again. Thich Nhat Hanh tells of spending an hour to nibble a cookie, totally absorbed in the experience. Bruteau explains that in the incarnated, resurrected life we share with Jesus, “the ‘cookie of our childhood’ is still there, hidden in our heart, as are a million other tiny sources of pure happiness, and if we are attentive, we will see and enjoy them.” Like the surprising joy of a class reunion…