By Donna VanLiere

I am one of the nearly forty-nine million You Tube viewers who have watched Susan Boyle, the unemployed cat owner from Scotland, blow away the audience of Britain’s Got Talent. 

Before she takes the stage we learn that Boyle is 47, never married, never kissed, spends her days with Pebbles the cat, and by eye-balling her: frizzy graying hair, eyebrows like caterpillars, ill-fitting dress, gray pantyhose and open-toed cream colored shoes, we assume she’s not a beauty pageant winner. The audience and judges size her up, too. When she says her age judge Simon Cowell responds with an exaggerated eyeball roll and fellow judge Piers Morgan, a former tabloid newspaper editor, furrows his brow (clearly this ancient dame is wasting his time). Amanda Holden, the third judge, is a beautiful English actress with a body and face that no matter how good your self-image is — if you stand next to her in line at the coffee shop — you instantly feel bloated and troll-like. Cutaway shots to the audience show young people snickering and looking at Boyle as if she forgot her mop backstage. 

“Okay,” Cowell says. “What’s the dream?” This is what it all boils to, really. The dream. The hope. 

“I’m trying to be a professional singer,” Boyle says. (Insert shot of young girl reacting as if saying, “Yeah, right. And I want to be Amanda Holden.”) 

When she says she’d like to be as successful as English musical theater legend Elaine Page, the cynicism in the room is as thick as Boyle’s eyebrows. If Boyle detects any of the sarcasm, unbelief, or disdain she never lets on. She announces her song choice from Les Miserables and Morgan laughs. 

Boyle signals for the song to begin and holds onto her mic like a child at her first school program. Then . . . she opens her mouth and when she does the audience erupts in cheers and applause. Simon Cowell’s eyes widen, Amanda Holden’s mouth drops open and Piers Morgan, who just seconds ago laughed at her, now smiles and applauds. Again, if Boyle is aware of the cheers, ovations and wild applause she doesn’t let on. In moments, the lovely Holden is on her feet aiming her applause directly at Boyle. Two women are facing each other: one is the epitome of success, loveliness and grace and the other has been accustomed to taking a backseat to the likes of Holden . . . but not now. The beauty is honoring the wallflower. 

As the final notes fade, the entire audience along with Morgan and Holden are on their feet (Cowell remains seated in case you’re wondering); Boyle blows a kiss to the crowd and begins to trudge off stage. The judges urge her back and the two hosts in the wings direct her to stay put. She has no idea what she has just accomplished or the effect she’s had on this once judgmental audience. The judges assess what they’ve just heard. “Amazing. I’m reeling,” Morgan says. 

But there is no greater compliment than that from Holden. “I just want to say that it was a complete privilege listening to that,” she says. Boyle wasn’t what she appeared to be; she was more. 

In Finding Grace (St. Martin’s Press) I relate the story of sitting in math class with my friend Peggy. Our seats were located in front of four of the princesses of the school. They were so beautiful, charming and trendy wearing their Izod alligator polo shirts and crisp khaki pants. Peggy and I wore Toughskin corduroys (Their slogan was, “The toughest of Sears tough jeans . . . lab tests prove it!”), sported either a bad perm or an uneven haircut and never made anybody’s cool list. Susan Boyle would have been our friend. 

Our math teacher was a man with a red face. It wasn’t sunburn or even a healthy glow; it was just red . . . all the time. Mr. Teacher Man seemed to be on the backside of his teaching career. Not because he was old but because he seemed to hate the job, or maybe he just disliked Peg and me. I don’t know. As Peggy and I went to the chalkboard one day I knocked the eraser to the floor. We both bent for it and clunked our heads together. The class laughed but Mr. Teacher Man did not. We were wasting his time. 

In the days following a school assembly was called. A special speaker was coming to entertain the student body. Peg and I threw our books in our lockers and made our way to the gymnasium. There were prime seats down front. We crossed the gym and climbed up two bleachers for our perfect spot when we heard him. “Those aren’t available.” We turned to see Mr. Teacher Man whose eyes were scanning the gym floor. I didn’t think he wasn’t talking to us and moved toward the seats again. “Those seats are taken, girls.” 

By that time every good bleacher was filled and we trekked up to the top row. I sat down and was positioning myself behind Ralphie the teenage giant boy when I noticed the four princesses sit in “our” seats down below. It turns out that Mr. Teacher Man was right. The best seats were unavailable . . . to us. Those seats were special and for special girls. We could make do somewhere else. 

Strange how people color the way we feel about ourselves. Somewhere along the way sociologists termed that as the looking glass self: we begin to perceive ourselves as those around us see us. You’re a good student but not as good as your sister. You’re a great athlete but not nearly as strong as your brother. You’re thin but just not thin enough for the job. You’re too fat for the job. You’re a good mom but have you seen her remarkable home and kids? You’re too old and frumpy to sing. Countless books, magazine articles, and television shows are dedicated to helping us be better in every way so we can finally reach those coveted best seats. 

But to love and accept someone despite their flaws and failures is a gift of grace in a cynical and hypercritical world where our own panel of judges smirk and snicker and whisper catty comments. Grace says, “Okay, what’s the dream?” without passing judgment or rolling the eyes. It sees beyond the frizzy hair and frumpy dress to the heart of the singer, or mother, or twice-divorced waitress. Grace stands up and says, “It is a privilege to know you.” Grace realizes there’s more than what meets the eye and is the most life-altering gift we can give to one another. 

I have a feeling that Susan Boyle knows that.

©2009 Donna VanLiere, author of Finding Grace: A True Story About Losing Your Way in Life . . . And Finding It Again

Author Bio

Donna Vanliere, author of Finding Grace: A True Story About Losing Your Way in Life . . . And Finding It Again, is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of The Christmas Hope series and Angels of Morgan Hill. She lives in Franklin, Tennessee with her husband and three children. 

For more information please visit http://www.donnavanliere.com

Like me, as a child you probably hoped for a life that would exceed your dreams but as those dreams collapsed along the way you’ve simply wished for a soft wing of hope but instead have gotten life in a culture of ungrace. That’s not a word but it should be. If you don’t know what ungrace is just listen to most people who didn’t vote for any sitting president, watch how fast Hollywood turns on a star who no longer sells at the box office or turn on the news anytime during the day. Ungrace pulsates in our workplaces, communities, and in the media and tells us that regardless of what has happened we must do better, look better, and make ourselves better. But to love and accept someone regardless of their flaws and failures is a breath of hope in a world that turns more upside down than right side up. That is the gift of grace. It’s being dirty and smelly and turning your face up under the spigot. Sometimes the wheels need to come off and you need to get pretty low before you appreciate grace.

The wheels are coming off for my friend Lisa. She’s the owner of a beautiful clothing store for women. She’s put her heart and soul into the store but then the economy tanked and people ran scared (even those who still had jobs and owned their homes). Trouble is, she did everything right: paid her mortgage, creditors and bills on time so she doesn’t qualify for help. The wheels are coming off for my friend Jacob. When he took his vows he never envisioned this animosity, anger or separation. The wheels are coming off for my friend Gerri. She finished chemotherapy and is beginning nine weeks of radiation for breast cancer. It wasn’t her dream but she’s added it to her daily schedule: go to work, get groceries, go to hospital for radiation, do laundry, make dinner.

When we plan our lives no one ever says, “When I grow up I want to get a divorce, maybe two!” Or, “When I grow up I want to lose my house, my business and my life savings!” Broken dreams are never part of anyone’s plan. We tie our plans up with ribbons and bows and aim for the mountain top but end up in the valley. In Finding Grace (St. Martin’s Press, March 2009) I relate a story of walking with my second grade class to the library when a sixth grader spit on me. He didn’t intend to spit on me but I was fortunate enough to be the one to pass at that exact moment. My teacher Mrs. Brewer cleaned me up but when I looked down at my maroon polyester blend turtleneck I could see the white tissue particles clinging to where the snot had been. “He blindsided you,” Mrs. Brewer said. “That’s how it goes sometimes.”

At some point, life blindsides us with something far greater than a giant loogie. The diagnosis, abuse, foreclosure, broken marriage, death, or financial collapse brings us to our knees and though we try to clean ourselves up the best we know how we’re still left with the stain of it all. “That’s how it goes sometimes.” True. But isn’t there more? The beauty of grace says yes. There’s more love after the infidelity, more joy after the diagnosis and more life after the financial ruin. Chris Gardner, the bestselling author of The Pursuit of Happyness was once asked how he and his son were able to overcome the shame of homelessness. Gardner said, “We were homeless, not hopeless!” Chris knew he was living on the streets but he was still living. That’s grace. Grace is always present and always near but it’s easy to miss — things aren’t always as they appear. I just returned from Winnipeg where The Christmas Hope is being filmed in a house. In previous months the homeowner fell off a ladder and broke several ribs. During x-rays it was discovered that he had cancer. That break-up, closed door to a job, or fall from a ladder may not be as devastating as you think but an act of grace that will save your life and help you discover higher dreams.

In a country of excess we suffer from a deficit of grace. In the last few months I’ve watched two stories on the news of men losing their jobs then killing their entire families and themselves. In another story a man lost his job after twenty years. “It’s heart wrenching,” he said. “But I still have my family and we’re all together.” That’s the hope of grace speaking and it beats the alternative any day. Last week my friend Lisa liquidated merchandise and said, “It kills me to close this store but I know God still has a plan for me.” That’s grace at the end of a shattered dream. My friend Miriam’s husband was devastated over their loss of money in the stock market. “How much do we have left?” she asked. Embracing and recognizing what is left is grace at the end of an economically depressed rope. There is life-altering power in that.

I once attended several Alcoholics Anonymous meetings for research. A man said, “I was a drunk for fifteen years. I lost my wife and son because she couldn’t take it anymore. One day I woke up and said, ‘What the hell am I doing? I need to live.'” For fifteen years the noise of his life drown out the voice that said he was worthy, needed and loved but then came the day that he finally heard it. That wake-up call to life is a gift from God. With what strength that man had left he turned his face up toward that spigot of grace and let it splash all over him.

Finding grace in a culture of ungrace seems an impossible task but it is present, it is real and it is an indomitable gift that has the power to change your life. It does come with one condition, though — like any gift you have to reach out and take it.
 

©2009 Donna VanLiere, author of Finding Grace: A True Story About Losing Your Way in Life . . . And Finding It Again