Two Little Films that Gave Me Big Pleasure

My wife and I are trying to make a weekly thing of movie going. You know, the real thing, where you go to a movie? It’s one of the better, cheaper dates.

So last week, sifting through the summer dreck of action and explo, I gave her two choices: “Norman,” starring Richard Gere as a New York “fixer”; and “Megan Leavey,” about a female Marine who serves as a dog handler, sniffing out IEDs in Iraq.

Now we’ve seen them, and although we both enjoyed “Norman” more, I particularly liked “Megan Leavey.” My wife rightly commented that it is manipulative in the way that it systematically pulls on your heart-strings. All I could say by way of rejoinder was that “Megan Leavey” is the first dog movie to make me cry since “Old Yeller.”

Mercy at the Movies

I watched “Manchester by the Sea” again last night and so should you, especially if you’re one of those people who thought it was too depressing, a downer, saaaaad.

I couldn’t disagree more. “Manchester by the Sea” is not only the best picture I’ve seen in the past twelve months (“Moonlight”? Best Picture? Seriously?). It’s also the most Catholic.

I don’t mean that the characters are Catholic, which they are. Lee (“Best Actor” Casey Affleck) reminds his nephew of this fact, adding that, by the way, Catholics are Christians. It’s not only that the plot effectively centers on a Catholic funeral and a Catholic burial.

What makes the film Catholic is its portrayal of mercy. “Manchester by the Sea” was released in the jubilee Year of Mercy declared by Pope Francis.

Becoming Old Myself

For thirty years, I have helped old people write their memoirs. Since my thirties, this has been my number-one bread-and-butter occupation.

One insight of my work as a private memoir ghost-writer is that old, or retired, people, have less ego, less push-forward, less need to prove themselves right or prove themselves at all. In general, they have worked with me on their life stories not because they consider themselves important but because they consider their children and grandchildren important, and they want to pass along a few things to these next generations.

Today, I find myself becoming that old guy. Somewhere in my sixties, I have already taken one stab at my own memoir and I now find myself working with a much younger population, who view me as, well, old, or at least older. They are not blind or deluded about this. I am older. (The photo shows me with John, a core member at L’Arche Boston North, with whom I was privileged to travel cross-country recently. With only a few months’ difference, John and I are the same age!)

“L’Arche Across America” — Day 27 — Epilog

It was not the way we drew it up, but it was, as Jane would say, beautiful. Last night after supper I was sharing time at Pat House of L’Arche Boston North when a van pulled up outside. My van. Containing my friends Jane, Doris, and Woody.

The meter on the dashboard read: Trip A / 9,298.6 miles.

The way we drew it up was, six of us would arrive in triumph earlier in the day, at the end of a coast-to-coast, round-trip odyssey, to be greeted by a gigantic celebratory cookout. The six of us were supposed to be the three in the photo above, plus Todd, John, and me.

My Father’s World

My father, David Frelinghuysen Bull, would be 92 this weekend. Yesterday was the anniversary of his birth on June 2, 1925; and if Dad were living, Katie and I would be driving this morning to visit him in Vermont, at the country home he shared with Mom. I would be looking forward to an afternoon of golf with Dad and probably a good long talk, before and after.

My father was a soldier, if not a hero, and war blended with religion in his appreciation of the world. So I treasure a pair of early memories of Dad: weekend visits to Fort Snelling in St. Paul, where he was called to reserve duty, slept in barracks, and marched on parade; and looking up at him every Sunday from a pew, watching his lips proudly voice the hymns, trying to blend my squeaky tenor with his earnest amateur baritone.

When I read more than fifty years later the childhood memories of St. Thérèse of Lisieux attending Mass beside her father, I smiled. “I looked more frequently at Papa than at the preacher,” Therese wrote, “for his handsome face said so much to me.”

Flying with John

By now you know I’m home. At least you do if you’ve been following the on-again, off-again saga of  “L’Arche Across America” in which my dream of six months was derailed in two weeks by the illness of one of our members.

Yesterday, I flew with John home from Seattle, a good decision. It was what needed doing, for his safety and long-term health. Last Thursday, John had a choking incident that may have included aspiration, which carries the risk of pneumonia. The ER doctors weren’t sure. But I was and so was our community leader-in-waiting, Jen, when I suggested it. John needed to come back to his L’Arche community in Haverhill, Mass., and as the closest to him of our traveling party, the obvious accompanier was I.

So that happened.

Turning Homeward with Gratitude

Yesterday, watching my own mini-van pull away from the curb on 15th Avenue in Seattle, pulling away without me and John, I felt sharp pangs of regret.

The “L’Arche Across America” tour, which I had done much to plan and promote and chronicle, was rolling on without me. The circus was leaving town and I wasn’t in it.

(The circus arrived in Portland late yesterday, as the picture proves. Left to right: Todd, Shonda, Doris, and Woody, with L’Arche Portland’s Adam, second from left.)

But today, waking up early at Angeline House in Seattle, where community has been very gracious to John and me, my thoughts are turning homeward with gratitude.

I am sifting through some little lessons granted by two weeks on the road in the company of some remarkable people.

L’Arche Across America — Day 12 — Hidden Life

On Sunday, May 21, the “L’Arche Across America” van rolls on to L’Arche Portland and from there south to San Francisco and LA, before turning east toward home.

It is a bit hard for me to accept that the van and its story are rolling on without me. It is like knowing that the story of life on earth will continue without me after I am gone.

Following John’s two nights in Seattle’s Virginia Mason Hospital, Thursday and Friday, I agreed on Saturday, with the okay of leadership back home, to return with John to Massachusetts by plane early in the coming week.

L’Arche Across America — Day 11 — Seattle

Someone is watching over us on this trip, either the Big Fellow Himself or a flotilla of guardian angels. Or both.

Just when we needed a rest, we got it. Just when we needed community, we have been enfolded by it.

We are staying three nights (Thursday thru Saturday) in two homes (Angeline and Shuinota) of L’Arche Seattle, when all along it was our intention to stay only one. And in our neediness, the community has been so hospitable to us, so kind, so good.

In the photo above, I am with Robin and Andrew at the breakfast table in Angeline House. Their kindness and that of so many others in community, beginning with Isaac, who has orchestrated our entire visit with Todd, is deeply appreciated.

The thing is, we were wearing out.

L’Arche Across America — Day 10 — Music

If I don’t write about music, you will not understand our journey. Since leaving Haverhill ten days ago, we have almost never been without music.

Woody, whose knowledge of rock and roll is nothing less than encyclopedic, is our music leader. He brought along a large paper bag full of CDs, and every afternoon one of the CDs comes out, goes into the CD player, and leads us to our next destination.

Top picks on Woody’s music list are anything by the Grateful Dead, as well as Jethro Tull and The Essential Bob Dylan.

Wednesday, on the way into Sea-Tac, we sang loud choruses of “The Times They Are A-Changing” and “Like a Rolling Stone.”