Sternfield Thoughts: Margit's smile

I was probably peeling potatoes as a student volunteer at Simon House, Oxford’s hostel for the homeless, when I first met Margit in the late 1970s. She would have wheeled herself into the sitting room of the ‘Dry End*, smiled, sipped her tea, and started chatting, sometimes throwing her head back a little with a gentle laugh.

There was something about her that made you want to stop. Her face was the essence of classical beauty, the features perfectly proportioned, wonderful eyes, all framed with lovely long black hair. And then so often all of this beauty would light up even more when she smiled. When things were not going well - - life at Simon House was not a champagne party - she had a sigh, that was all.

All of this loveliness – and a wheel chair. I was at Simon House full-time for nearly two years; I never heard a whisper of complaint, but I saw a lot of work. She didn’t join the morning cleaning team, but she cooked, drove, handled the cash, gave out the medicine and managed the door. And when she told someone – with good reason – that they could not come in, here was authority. For other workers there was sometimes some argie-bargie, even a scuffle. Not for Margit. Her word was final, and no man would ever dare touch her. Here was old fashioned honour, stronger than booze, that would never rough up a woman in a wheel-chair; here too was Margit’s reputation in Oxford. She was respected and loved.

Some of the lives of the men who stayed at Simon House were frayed. Their comfort was drink. And so they came in the evening for a meal and a bed or a mattress in what was called the ‘Wet End’. And here Margit would come and in the gloom of a winter night her smile made things a little gentler. She didn’t have to be there, but she was**. A woman determined to give to others.

Many years after leaving Oxford I organised a get together for old friends: school, university - and Simon House. Margit flew in from Denmark and was picked up from the airport by two of her old and close friends. It was a magical week-end, lots of connecting and catching up. The main party was on the Saturday, but on the Sunday Margit and her two close friends came again for lunch. At Simon House I had never asked Margit about her childhood and her disability. Now I did and as she quietly shared about all that had happened, so her courage and stoicism shone louder and louder. As I waved her and her friends good-bye late that afternoon, I was richer. What a privilege to know such a lady.

For that week-end Margit had brought me some Danish hymns. She knew I had faith – and, I think, she too wanted to have faith. In the spring of 2015 Mojdeh and I had some church meetings in Copenhagen; when they finished we got the train to Aarhus to stay with Margit. Her smile was as sweet as ever; but her body was treating her even more harshly. Randomly, without warning, it would go into painful spasms which she just had to endure. Often it was difficult for her to breath. There were plenty of sunshine moments in that visit, but Margit was honest about the clouds. Not just the physical pain, but also the fear - of suffering, of death. Her vulnerability was painful. She was keen that we pray for her, which we did. There was no miracle, her suffering, it seems, got worse.

In the email though that came to her friends after she left us on December 23rd there was something very poignant. Margit was on a respiratory machine and the decision was taken that no more could be done for her. The machines would be switched off. The end had come.

So much pain in life, and now the huge unknown of death, and what was on that beautiful face?

A smile: 'Margit took her last breath with a little smile on her face.'

Was this a brave smile for another, Margit being faithful to the rule of her life? Was this a smile on reaching the finishing line, the suffering coming to an end at last? Or was this a smile because she sensed she was on the verge of another, sweeter reality? Maybe it was all three, but her smile at that moment was surely a beautiful end to what was truly a beautiful life.

*The Dry End of Simon House was where people lived who were keeping away from the drink; the Wet End was for those who were still drinking in the day. No alcohol was allowed into the hostel, nor were the inebriated.

**Great credit must be given to the late Mike Hall, Simon House's first director. When he heard that Margit wanted to come and work at the hostel, he wasn't fazed, but energetically set about measuring the doors and corridors to make sure she would be able to move around in her wheel-chair. For Mike's obituary see here -

https://www.theguardian.com/society/2015/jul/05/mike-hall-obituary