He dreamed of spending his life doing what he felt he’d been born to do. But he’d been horribly bullied when young. Seven bully-inflicted scars still hid under his hairline. The terror of those years had stolen his confidence. So when gap-toothed, overweight contestant #31829 took his turn in the footlights at Britain’s Got Talent in 2007, it was remarkable he’d showed up at all.

He stood awkwardly on stage, his hands drooping at his side. When the judges asked him exactly what he was there to do, the 36 year-old fellow with too many chins answered, “to sing opera.”

The judges cringed and exchanged glances, barely restraining their smirks. The man in the funny little suit watched the reaction, looking almost ready to cry. “Go ahead,” they said.

As a youngster, he took up music in school. It became his solace, allowing him to escape the bullying during lunch hours for practice in the music room. Along the way, he fell in love with opera, grabbing every musical opportunity he could. Later he took extra jobs to earn enough to travel to Italy for a group class with Italian tenor, Pavarotti. The singer picked him out as someone to take note of.

Then came cancer, an accident, and a series of health crises. Medical debts piled high. Paying them down obliterated his hopes of a life in opera. His lack of confidence didn’t help.

The contestant from South Wales had moved past his traumatic past and gotten on with life. He’d become a cell-phone salesman, married and served his community as a civil leader. And he’d all but given up his dream. He’d entered the competition on a whim, despite feeling sure his voice was far off the mark of what the judges were looking for.  “I was terrified,” he admitted.

The man opened his mouth to sing, and the first strains of a classic Pucccini aria emerged.  A voice judge Simon Cowell later described as “magical” soared through the theatre. People forgot the funny suit, the extra pounds and chins, the gap in the teeth. Attendees wept in their seats. Other stood instantly, in praise of an undeniable God-given gift.

 The competition could have closed in that instant.

Paul Potts lives his dream now. Since winning Britain’s Got Talent in 2007, he has sung for the queen and performed hundreds of solo concerts in great halls around the world. He’s made several full length albums, and been interviewed hundreds of time. His humility shines through his incomparable performances, and they still bring people to tears.

“What would you say to your bullies now?” one interviewer asked. With remarkable grace, Paul responded, “In some ways, the bullying probably made me the person I am. So, in some ways, thank you.”

Diamonds are made from lumps of coal. Pearls begin as irritations. Got tough stuff in your life? Whether or not it seems possible, God can bring good from it. Trust him for the jewel.

***

Watch Paul Potts’s initial performance at BGT, 2007

Thirty-four years ago, when we were first married and still attending college, the Preacher and I worked as care-aides in a Winnipeg nursing home. Among the residents was a sparrow of a woman named Mimi. Osteoporotic, her brain clouded with dementia, she’d nevertheless captured the hearts of the entire staff.

Mimi stood about four feet tall. Like I said, a sparrow. When I first worked with her, she had free run of the home. Her fine paper-white hair swept into a beribboned ponytail, she popped in and out of other patients’ rooms, stealing teeth and bibs, and visiting as though with family.

She praised each made bed, and chided at each mussy one. She wandered into the kitchen, raising pot lids and stirring things, adding any spices she thought necessary, to the cooks’ amusement. Occasionally the Preacher had to pick her up and put her back where she belonged. She laughed, then. Giggled like a girl.

Mimi frequently visited Bob Cord, the man in the room nearest the nurses’ station. Sometimes she even crawled into bed with him—an uncomfortable squeeze at best. The crusty old Irishman protested so loudly we heard him in the south end of the south wing.  “SOMEONE GET THIS —— WOMAN OUT’A HERE!”

The Preacher had the ill fortune of having to fetch her from there once. She fought him all the way, weeping and beating on his arm. “That’s my husband. He needs me. Take me back to my Jim!” I never saw her angry except then.

On a good day, Mimi swaddled the place with cheer. Charmed us all with her insatiable curiosity and concern for anyone in sight. She couldn’t think much past that.

But only Mimi’s recent memory had fled. She remembered the long-ago past with remarkable clarity; her years as a young bride, a young mother, a farm wife. In those days, Mimi dwelt. And though it flew in the face of our reality orientation training, we left her there most of the time. Her mind had returned her to the years and people she loved best. What right had we to displace her heart?

Mimi’s pillow was almost as large as she was, but one night, as I helped her into bed, she asked for a second one. She’d never done that before. “We’re short on pillows, love,” I told her. Her face fell.  But I was curious. “Why do you want another pillow, Mimi?”

She seemed surprised, but her face lit up. “Why, for Jim! He works so hard in the fields.” Suddenly, she sat up, placed her own pillow on one side of the bed, and scooted over far to the other side, against the bars. “It’s okay,” she said, laying her head down on the sheet. “He can have mine.”

Mimi ‘s beyond-death-and-dementia kind of love still challenges me in the Christ-mandated, putting-another’s-needs-first department. Even after decades of my own marriage, I have far to go, most days.

Happy Anniversary, Hon. You get the pillow tonight.

Headin’ to Manitoba, said my cousin’s voice on the phone.  And hey….the road goes right through (well, almost). Could we…?

(You can do that, with family.)

“We’d love that,” I said. “Come.” In fact, I’d be offended if those children of my fathers’ elder brother and their spouses didn’t stop.

Watchers populate my father’s side of the family tree. We don’t hover. Most of us don’t stay in touch much. But in unusual life seasons, the uncles, the aunts, the cousins and spouses—we all hear. And at family joys and sorrows, some of us turn up.

Family does that.

I don’t think any of us realize how much we value each other until we re-emerge in each others’ lives, bringing inestimably precious cargo: love, wrapped in empathetic emotion: Tears. Laughter. Hope.

They’d never visited us at Hope House, these cousins. They were, no doubt, curious. They have a right to be: the right of familial propriety. A connectedness that keeps the distance bridged, and the bridges open for whenever any of us may need to cross.

They pulled up about an hour after they called. The Preacher and I led them on a tour of the yard. Then, over black coffee, white tea, and Voortman’s blueberry-filled oatmeal cookies, we sat in the living room and caught up.

We reported on our growing families, spread across three provinces. We shared accomplishments and mistakes, discussed our health and our hopes. Dreams, too. “Wanna go to New York? Take in a musical? Hey, let’s plan it for 2012. By the way…anybody got money?”

We punctuated our conversation with laughter, with some eyeball rolling and teasing about thinning hair, scattered minds and widening girth. You can get away with that, with family.

We reviewed the strings that connect and the strands that separate. We touched on upbringing and downsizing; on each of the four generations with which we’re all inextricably linked: our aged parents, our aging selves, our range-in-age children, and our grandchildren of barely-any-age-at-all-yet. (We bragged on them a bit. You can do that around family, too.)

Of our fathers’ many brothers, only two remain. The older we cousins get, the more I observe—among the closest—that we are cut from similar patterns. Our fathers’ genes came strong to us, firmly entwined with chords of love for God and earth, family and fellow man. They are giants in our memories, those men. Combined with the genes of our mothers, faithful and iron-strong, we are each doubly blessed by these ties that bind us. We hope to pass them on.

I didn’t mean to write about cousins today. Maybe I didn’t. Perhaps this is a litany of gratitude for open bridges. Or a sigh for families who have become disconnected and miss each other. Maybe an enticement to tie up fraying family chords. Or, to those who have burned their bridges, an invitation to re-build—for those who come behind.

Because families do that.

Ever since I learned that a finely sprayed mist of water works to smooth out wrinkles, I’ve rarely used my iron. But spraying doesn’t work on all materials.

Five-year-old Benjamin, after an overnight stay, dragged a red plaid shirt from his knapsack. “Nana, I’m wearing this shirt today! It’s my favourite!”

I could barely see the print, the shirt had so many creases. It looked as though he’d stored under his mattress for safekeeping. No fine mist will work on this, I thought. Heavy metal may, though.

“Great, Bean. Let’s get it ready for you to wear.” I walked to the closet and dug about for the iron, finally spotting it lolling behind the light bulbs and extra chords.

“Nana, what’s that?” the Bean asked, when I hauled it out. He has seen his mother iron—but pre-schoolers need things repeated.

“It’s an iron, Mr. Bean.”

“Does it make noise? What does it do?”

“No noise, hon. But it makes things flat and smooth.”

 Benjamin watched me lay his shirt across the miniature ironing board (which I had to explain was NOT a snowboard) and begin pressing. “But why does my shirt need to be flat and smooth?”

The Preacher has protested flat himself, for eons.  Even I don’t know why smooth is better. But rather than flout convention and tradition, I changed the subject. (Distraction still works for five-year-olds—though barely.)

“Here you go, Bean. Put it on while it’s still warm!” I said, swiping the collar one last time. He wore his flat shirt all day—though he did ask me to “warm it up, again” later.

 The spray technique works well sometimes. On a recent sweltering day, I put on a scoop-necked cotton sun-dress. After misting the creases from the front, I called the Preacher.

“Hon, I’ve got some wrinkles in the back. Could you spray them out, please?” I handed him the water bottle and turned around.

The cool mist on my neck and upper back felt good. But he dallied so long up there that water flowed down my back. “Hey! You’re not getting the dress! I said spray out the wrinkles!” I protested.

He chuckled, dropped the mister and limped off as fast as I’ve seen him move in years. I got his joke then, and chuckled in spite of myself.

“Wondered how long it’d take ya,” he shot over his shoulder.

 Souls, as well as cloth and skin, wrinkle up too. But the things that shrivel those—sin, fear, worry, desperation, pride, and frustration (for starters)—need spiritual solutions. Daily ones.

Got a wrinkled soul? Here’s help: Apply heavy metal: the solid-gold, sword-sharp, white-heat truth of God’s word. Return for a warm-up frequently. Mist constantly with honest conversation with Jesus Christ and service to others. And enlist a trustworthy Christ-following friend to assist you with the wrinkles you’re blind to. We all have those. Even the Preacher.