Growing up, my elementary school had an annual field day. The entire school was split into color-coded teams, mixing all grades (I was always on the Orange Bad News Bears). I hated it, field day was my least favorite day of the year and it may also account for my mild dislike of orange. I wasn't good at any of the events. I couldn't run fast enough, I couldn't jump-rope long enough, I couldn't throw a ball far enough. I did win the softball throw one year... because I was the only girl in my class who entered the event; it never really felt like a victory. Usually, I just got the "participation" points. But this post isn't about Field Day.
My senior year of high school, my class went to the Philippines for our class trip. Before going, someone who had worked and lived in Manila came and talked to us about what to expect and how to stay safe. We were warned to keep close track of our wallets and not wander off at night and not to give money to any people on the streets. We were warned that street children might pick our pockets or were fronts for gangs or Faganesque groups. And we saw people everywhere and there were children, so young and obviously in need, lurking by every mega-mall entrance, with jasmine wreaths to sell, for so little. But this post isn't about that trip.
Soon after returning from the Philippines, we were encouraged to submit writings about our experiences to the school newspaper. I wrote a poem and submitted it. It wasn't the best poem but it wasn't the worst. I tried to capture some of my conflicted feelings from the trip. The editor thought it needed explaining which, truth be told, annoyed me quite a bit. I thought part of the beauty of poetry was in discovering the meaning on your own. It also fed worries and insecurities that no one else would understand what I was trying to say, that my writing wasn't any good (insecurities that persist to this day).
Shortly after the newspaper was printed, Field Day came around. Traditionally, the seniors helped out with Field Day but earlier in the year, they had decided they wouldn't need our help. I was overjoyed that I wouldn't have to help out and relive unhappy childhood memories. Unfortunately, a few days before Field Day was to happen, they decided they needed our help after all. Our PE coach let us know that we would be needed but, knowing how much I disliked it, he had arranged for me to help at the score table, rather than any of the events.
While working the score table, one of the mothers approached me. She and her husband were new to our community. She introduced herself, explaining that she had sought me out because she and her husband were from the Philippines and she wanted to thank me for the poem that I had written. She understood exactly what I had been trying to say and she wanted to make sure I knew that it had touched someone, that someone understood. I don't think I ever talked to her again after that but it's one of those things that I've held in my heart all these years.
And that's what this post, this long, rambling post is about. Because the woman who introduced herself to me, who encouraged me so long ago is named Bola Taylor and Bola Taylor is dying of cancer. She is dying with grace and humor and courage. I've seen bits and pieces, here and there on Facebook through friends' walls, pictures and posts and it is beautiful and sad to see. And I can't imagine what her family and friends are going through. And I wanted to say thank you, Bola, from one stranger to another, before it was too late. Thank you for your encouragement so long ago, thank you for your grace and hope and belief and witness over the past few months. I know that whatever happens, you made a difference, you will continue to make a difference. You remind me of one of my favorite Bible verses, "She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at days to come."
All I can really say is thank you.
Update: Bola Taylor died early in the morning of October 19 in Tokyo. Rest in peace, Bola.
