It
was a very wet day in 1988 and outside the chapel in Trosly-Breuil Jean Vanier
was waiting. I had been sent there by an editor at DLT to persuade him to allow
me to write his biography. Jean had read my book on Brother Roger of Taizé and
even written to congratulate him on it. The signs were hopeful. I approached
him nonetheless with a degree of uncertainty. He, however, appeared to have no
such qualms. He motioned to me to sit down in a pool of water on a low stone
wall beside him, and I obediently did so. The tenor of our relationship of many
years was set. His gentle respect for all, especially the weakest, was
underpinned by the conviction of one whose way was sign-posted by God and the
authority of a former naval officer. It was imperative, he began, that I see
how l’Arche was expressed in terms of different cultures. I duly journeyed from
the snow of Toronto to the dusty heat of a Honduran barrio and in the course of those travels, the voice of the poor
gained, as Jean had doubtless known it would, a special resonance.
Never
reticent when talking about that voice and the need for it to be heard, he was
more so when it came to speaking more personally. My role, when interviewing
him, was to create an environment, often one of silence, in which he felt able
to draw words from deep within or beyond himself. “Moments de grâce” was how
Jean described them. We were to experience many of these grace-filled moments
together over the years.
Shortly
after the death of Little Sister Magdeleine of Jesus my telephone rang. The
Little Sisters were seeking someone to write a biography of their foundress.
Why had they contacted me? “ Jean Vanier recommended you,” their Mother General
replied. I was to have a similar experience when, for example, the Foyers de
Charité were looking for a translator of a book about Marthe Robin. I had translated
Jean’s “Happiness in the Ethics of Aristotle” and that in his eyes made me a
“translator extraordinaire”! When I accused him of behind the scenes
manipulation, he would grin sheepishly. “Are they paying you enough?” was his
ever-practical reaction, behind which was hidden extraordinary trust and great
concern that what gifts I had should be used as God intended.
At
intervals he would call to see how I was. I would make some polite but un-illuminating
response, whereupon he would invariably say with great emphasis: “No, I mean
how are you?” He was more interested
in my state of mind and spiritual wellbeing than the fact that I had chicken pox.
Sometimes he would send me a manuscript for comment. My remarks, which felt
like presumption on my part, were always accepted with great humility. At other times he wanted me to recommend a
book on Sufism or to tell me in excited tones about the Enneagram or ask me to bring
him a Christmas pudding or announce his imminent arrival in London.
He
let it be known that lunches at my home should whenever possible consist of
roast lamb, with mint sauce! He liked good red wine, and I could never be quite
sure how many others would be accompanying him. It mattered not, for he would
simply divide whatever was available to eat between however many turned up. By
his own account, he had little small talk that did not relate to l’Arche, but
we had many “friends” in common: Brother
Andrew, co-founder of the Missionary of Charity Brothers and Mother Teresa
herself among them. Jean was always keen to have news of them, and always as
concerned about how other communities were developing as he was about l’Arche.
Any suggestion that things might not be going as well as they could was greeted
with faith-filled acceptance: “Charisms are given and charisms are taken away.”
On
the death of Claire de Miribel, an assistant in l’ Arche for thirty-six years
and at one time International Co-ordinator, whose loss he clearly felt very
deeply, he asked me to compile a book to pass on her message. “Dance with me?”
drew substantially on Claire’s talks and writings about how her companions with
disabilities invited her to embrace her own vulnerability, but it also drew on
a lunchtime conversation at which core members of Claire’s community shared
their memories of her. Entitled “Lemon chicken”, it reflected all the life-giving
unpredictability and playfulness of l’Arche meals, and typically it was this
chapter that Jean loved best.
There
was much laughter in what had developed into a friendship. His attachment to
his navy blue anorak, the fact that he was quite capable of appearing to give a
public talk wearing odd socks – there was little that was not subject to his
self-deprecating humour. Meeting me on the streets of Trosly one day, he
inquired whether I too was going to Mass. “Yes,” I replied, “this heathen is
going to Mass”. My frivolous reference was to the fact that I was not a Roman
Catholic but it marked the beginning of an on-going comic debate about whether
I was a pagan or a heathen and what the real distinction was between the two.
And
then there were the letters: written in miniscule handwriting in what amounted
to blank verse, often addressed to “My little pagan beloved by God”, always
containing messages of encouragement (of course I could deliver a talk to an
assembly of the Little Sisters of Jesus about their own foundress, in French!}
and invariably concluding: “When are you coming to Trosly? Peace, Jean.”
It
was with deep sadness that I declined the kind invitation to attend his funeral,
having just undergone surgery, but perhaps it was appropriate that I should
participate in the celebration of his oh so fruitful life from a place of
weakness. I rather think Jean would believe so.
“Peace
to you too, Jean!”
Kathryn
Spink is author of The Miracle, The Message, The Story: Jean Vanier and L’Arche,
available now in paperback and part of our Jean Vanier promotion.
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