When I met Robert De Niro at the beach
And he turned out to be Jewish
On Saturday, I met Robert De Niro. Or I thought it was him, anyway.
A friend and I had just sat down for a picnic on Santa Monica Beach. It was a #girldinner feast which basically amounted to containers of veggies and a little humus. Rose made faux mimosas--what she termed "adrenal cocktails" made of orange juice, coconut water, and a little sea salt.
Well, we were sipping our mimosa's in bathing suits in the middle of October when Robert De Niro comes along with another guy, about the same age, who happily races to the water with a surf board.
"Hey are you...?" I called because I have never obeyed the 'don't talk to strangers' rule in my life.
The surfer finished the sentence ... "Robert De Niro's younger brother? Yes." And he nudged the man in my direction.
In the quick exchange of shock and recognition, I'd forgotten that De Niro was actually in his 80's or 90's and this guy was more like late 50's or 60's. But guys ... he REALLY looked like Robert De Niro. See?
Turns out the De Niro look-a-like was just that: a professional Robert De Niro look-a-like.
But this man didn't have anything like an Italian accent and because I especially love meeting people of all cultures and backgrounds, I asked him where he was from.
"Israel," he said, but with a tinge of trepidation, as if this might be a reason to reject him.
Before I continue, you need to know something about me. This kind of thing happens to me ALL THE TIME. I can be quietly waiting for a friend in a coffee shop and an older Iranian man (total stranger) and I will get into a conversation about borderline pacifism (my side) and how the U.S. should start a war with North Korea (his side). But lately, I'd rather turn off any New York Times notifications than face the reality of a very broken world.
This is where I'm gonna be real honest: I've actively avoided reading about the situation in Israel/Palestine. Not because I don't care--precisely because I do. Probably a little too much.
For the past year and a half, I worked for a non-profit and wrote stories, daily, about horrific human rights violations. Gang rape, bombings, dying children, torture. It took a lot out of me and affected my mental health in more ways than one.
So when "De Niro's younger brother" began passionately talking to us about his homeland, I thought, is this the moment I want to get into this discussion? While I'm enjoying myself during much-needed girl time at the beach? When I'm trying to be proactive about my mental health?
Yet De Niro kept talking ... and talking ... and talking about the Middle East conflict. I remembered back when I was an assistant bank manager and how old men entered my office and spent half the day telling me stories about fighting in the Battle of the Bulge with Patton's army or showed me pictures of their grandkids or argued with me over an annuity sale.
I told you, this happens to me all the time.
After he walked away, and let me tell you, he chatted for as long as his friend went surfing, I became aware of a kind of shame at my impatience. He must have family, friends still living there, right in the center of this terrifying situation. I, on the other hand, have tried to shelter myself from most topics involving violence for the past few months.
Well, I've tried to shelter myself from most anything really.
As I'm writing this, a friend is texting me. I want to shut off the text notifications on my MacBook, and I almost do. I don't want to be bothered by the incessant dinging sound while I'm trying to write.
And sometimes, I just don't want to deal with the discomfort of people--even if they're friends and even if they're completely safe and a completely pleasant person to be around. People are exhausting.
But instead of ignoring the texts, I hear a small voice tell me, "don't turn off your phone. Text her right back."
This is not self-care I want to say back. What about boundaries?
And then I see it, in my mind's eye: His body sliced and broken and bloody. He willingly placed Himself there out of love. Needless to say, I couldn't compare any of my "discomfort" to that.
It wasn't guilt He meant for me to feel in that moment but a gentle push to see love with new eyes. The process of love, if we allow it to rise in us, will involve a little fatigue. It's a daily half-marathon of sheer exhaustion combined with that moment of blissful collapse at the end. You've made one choice after another to keep going and finally get to capitalize on your triumph with a deluge of dopamine.
It may seem like a small thing to listen to an old man talk for hours--it's definitely nothing like the torture of crucifixion. But God promised us this: "Those who are loved by God, let his love continually pour from you to one another, because God is love. Everyone who loves is fathered by God and experiences an intimate knowledge of Him." (1 John 4: 7)
Read that again. And again. And again.