My wife and I spent a few days in the Ozark Mountains last week. We especially enjoyed the beautiful scenery along the Buffalo National River in Arkansas and Tablerock Lake near Branson, Missouri. While in the Branson area, we stopped in at an exhibit devoted to the memory of Princess Diana. There were videos and photos of the fairy-tale-like wedding to Prince Charles, displays of the dazzling gowns she wore for state occasions, exhibits of her jewelry, candid photos of her with her beloved boys William and Harry, and so on. It is a museum of pathos, a story of privilege and glamor, but also a story of heartache, disappointment and tragedy. Lady Di was a fashion plate, darling of the press, admired not only in Great Britain but around the world. At the same time, she was plagued by the very notoriety that put her on the world stage, unable to conform to expectations from the royals, dislocated and confused in her personal life.
She is remembered as well for her humanitarian concern. She championed the cause of children in war-torn nations, especially where there remain dangerous minefields. She seemed to relish opportunities to hold and hug children suffering from leprosy or otherwise disfigured. It was this capacity to identify with the poor and dispossessed that brought her into a friendship with Mother Teresa of Calcutta. Two different worlds, and yet, a certain kinship.
Seeing only her public personna, we cannot know all that motivated Diana to reach out to the poorest of the poor. But the fact is that there are so many of the rich and famous who make no such efforts, yet that aspect of her personality remains a part of her legacy. It is evident that she was not the kind of saint that Mother Teresa was. But from her position of international prestige, wealth beyond the imagination of most of us, she expressed compassion for those many have forgotten. To me, that was a witness.
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