I Earned Them

The call came from one of those trendy American magazines that have found their niche and built a solid base of readers. They were doing a feature on past politicians who were attempting to make a difference in needy countries around the world. They chose one each from a number of nations, including India, Brazil, Britain, America and Japan. I was the Canadian. It would involve a writer and photographer coming up to London to hold an extensive session. I reminded them that I had actually been doing international development work for 40 years and hadn’t merely transitioned into that field. “Your work in Sudan is fascinating,” they responded, “and we would like to go ahead.” I was also asked to send along some background material.A few days later I received a call from the photographer. It turned out that most of those going to be interviewed were younger.  “We might want to brush out some of the wrinkles on your forehead; you’ll look better,” she said. I had no doubt that the altered photo would make me look younger, but, hey, that wasn’t me. I turned down the kind offer of Photoshop magic.I know well enough that being 61 would hardly qualify me for admission to an upbeat club, but that’s not what I’m looking for anyway. I pulled out the picture above Jane had taken in Rome and we laughed at my resemblance to a former emperor. The wrinkles were obvious – I more closely resemble a prune than a dedicated activist. It launched us into a discussion on where my wrinkles came from, what they meant.I’m glad to say I earned them, every one. All of us attempt to come to terms with aging and each accomplishes this in different ways. For me, finding accommodation with the process has been relatively easy. Behind these wrinkles stand stories that make up my life. The Bible has a quote saying that “we live our lives as a tale that is told.” It’s true. But on our bodies are written the many chapters of that tale. Despite all the attempts at reversing or covering up the process, the words are still there for each of us.Those lines that cradle my eyes could easily be from those times I cradled my seven children or three grandchildren. Added to these would have to be the tender moments when I held men, women and children in far-off, distant lands who were gasping for their final moments of breath. There have been hundreds; and surely that would have to do something to your face … and your soul.The worry lines were come by honestly as well. I carry Africa in my heart as easily as I do my children and friends. The few friends I have lost due to my own insensitivity and misunderstanding was hard for me.  And all those times I worried about my kids and how they would fare in an increasingly divided world. The great hopes I have for the world’s poor remain, but the lives of billions pressed down by abject poverty likely resulted in permanent lines of pain on my countenance.And then there are all my failures – so many of them. My weaknesses, my wilful blunders, the pain caused to others – you can’t be a humanitarian and not feel the great cost of that.One older nun in Africa once told me that the lines on my face turn totally upside-down when I smile or laugh. It’s likely true because I have received so much joy from my faith, my wife, children, times in the sun and snow, community, the food bank, my friends, music, my house, my early years in Calgary and Scotland, and my parents. But my joy lines were always in tension with what I was seeing in the world and eventually the degradation of billions overcame my own particular blessings. I’m made that way, and so the lines turn much more down than upwards. I thank God for both, but I’m driven to the suffering of others even as it causes my own. I only wish I had been more successful in such efforts to help.My wrinkles are a Rite of Passage. Sure, they are the offshoots of DNA, just like my other features: a mind that permits me to spot the tragedy in others, ears that hear the crying of children, hands that desire to build schools, feet that seem destined to walk to the margins of life, and a heart … well, it’s a heart just like so many of yours that beats in rhythm to the needs of the world.So, no thanks. No Photoshopping or airbrushing for me – it can’t do much anyway. As long as these wrinkles remain and even become deeper, I am alive to my world and its many challenges. I am who I am, despite what appears to be an endless line of failures and flaws. And, yes, I once was a politician whose craggy lines became more pronounced in what Rick Mercer called this week the “sewer of politics.” My humanity preceded my political career; it will succeed it; and it has easily transcended it.  I am who I am. The wrinkles represent a tale that is told, and I’m not done writing it yet. Not as long as the child cries, a woman laments, a man suffers from wounds, or my family needs me. The pen is still writing.