The last thing I remember about Brittany was the great, blinding smile coming off of her face, during her curtain call, up on that high school stage.
A Friday night, and my wife and I had over-committed, and now were supposed to be in not one, but two places at the same time. We were late for both of them, still half-getting-dressed-in-the-car on the way, still debating which of our engagements we were actually going to, when I suddenly remembered a third one. Brittany had invited me to her play.
Though she was the one least likely to be offended by our absence, something nagged at me. A feeling. A nudge. I turned the car around and headed for her high school. My wife, surprised, did not protest. She’d met Brittany, once. Maybe she felt a nudge, too.
The play had everything – broad comedy, epic tragedy, some song and dance, and a big monologue for Brittany. She was a frail, little thing, surrounded on stage by some other erstwhile thespians and a few football players who looked lost up there. Incredibly, she made her voice heard to the very back row, capturing meaning in every line, nuance in each changing emotion.
I knew she was good – she lived for this kind of thing – but I’d never seen her in full-out performance before. She was a natural. Extraordinary. A pint-sized Meryl Streep, easily bringing a whole cast up to her marvelous level.
The applause soared as the curtain fell, and thundered on and on as she came out for bow after bow. It was a great night, and even from the farther back rows, you could see the pure joy of her triumph shining in her eyes.
Every actress should have a night like that.
A few days later, she was gone.
* * * * *
The first thing I remember about Brittany is being angry.
Not at Brittany. About Brittany. Someone told me about a phys ed teacher she’d had, along the way, who tried to make her run a mile. Said none of his students graduated, unless they ran a mile.
Brittany and her mom and a lot of other people tried to reason with him. They offered ideas for a dozen other things Brittany could do to prove her strength and endurance. It just wasn’t fair, they explained, over and over, for a girl with cystic fibrosis – a girl with no lungs to speak of – a girl who spent a fair amount of her life checking in and out of hospitals – to have to run a mile.
But the teacher was adamant. It had to be a mile.
Only, it wasn’t. In the end, some wiser head prevailed, and the teacher had to settle for the fact that, mile or no mile, Brittany had a good enough grasp of P.E. to graduate. Endurance, this girl had in spades. The fact that she couldn’t run the normally required distance didn’t mean she hadn’t learned anything, didn’t have the right stuff, wasn’t ready to move on.
Some passing breeze stirred a thought of Brittany last week, and I realized that, as of a month ago, she’d have been 35 years old. Hard to wrap my head around that. I’m remembering her beautiful, shining eyes, and quick smile, and all that mischievous life that kept pouring through her and from her. Oh, to have seen her find her one-of-a-kind way in this wide world, and snag a few more of those hundreds of dreams she kept dancing in her eager heart.
What I wanted, I guess – what we all wanted – was to see her go the distance. The whole distance. Run the mile. Live a full, rich, long life. It didn’t matter that she’d been so sick. Or that she’d already experienced so much of what’s good and sweet and right about this time that we have … our limited engagements.
It didn’t matter that she’d already given us more of herself than she really had in there to give.
We were stubborn. Unyielding. It had to be a mile.
But it wasn’t.
And yet, I know so there are so many in the human race who finish all of their laps, and – unlike Brittany – never see Paris. Or play to adoring crowds. Who never hear the delightful waves of laughter, and cascades of applause, coming back to them, up on that stage, and know they are the ones who brought joy to this great roomful of people.
There are people who make it way past 16 and never know the sweet truth of real friendship … the fun and grace of a caring family … the funky pleasure of wearing a blouse or a hairstyle that no one else has yet discovered … or the deep-down kind of confidence that comes from making yourself do a lot of things you don’t actually have the strength to do.
Brittany had people, friends and strangers, who clapped for her, cheered for her, showered her with affection … gently caressed her weary head … pounded their love into her congested back for half-an-hour, night after night after night.
She spoke the words of great writers, and knew that she spoke them very well, and that people heard truth in her voice. She spoke words that she’d written herself, and looked into the eyes of men and women and children and peers ... and knew these people were listening, and liking what they heard.
Her failing body carried elections, and aced auditions, and earned a driver’s license … one hard-won ounce at a time. She made commercials, and danced down Broadway, stopping traffic and singing her heart out.
She fought for her life, and dreamed for her future, and loved like people do when they mean for love to last, and grow, and go on forever.
“Well, God must want me to do something," Brittany told her mother, a few days before she died, "or He wouldn’t have gotten me off that ventilator.”
Hearing that now, it sounds, maybe, like false hope. But it wasn’t. The hope was true. Brittany believed there is a God, and that He does the good things, that He has His plans and His reasons. And that we can trust the goodness, whether we understand the reasons or not.
If she knew these things, then, mile or no mile, Brittany had a good enough grasp of life to graduate. She didn’t run as far as so many of us wanted her to. But then, she wasn’t an athlete.
She was an actress. Someone who reads the script that she’s given, and performs it the way the Writer wrote it – by bringing it to life in herself.
No matter what any of us might want to think, what we’re in the midst of here is only a dress rehearsal.
Like the rest of us, Brittany had her shot at a great supporting role – a part composed just for her – in the greatest comedy-drama of them all.
She aced the audition. Got the part. And – up on that incomparable stage – the girl who couldn't manage a mile is enjoying a long, long run.
Many of her fans look forward to seeing her again. For now, though, she’s slipped away, behind the curtain.
To meet the Bright and Morning Star.
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