Merry Christmas, Mary Bailey. (Lessons from It's a Wonderful Life)

Me with Robert Berry (Clarence, etc.)
and David Jarrott (Mr. Potter, etc.)

My little sister's name is Mary, so I was often called "Mary" growing up. Getting to play Mary Bailey in Penfold Theatre Company's It's a Wonderful Life Classic Radiocast here in Austin this Christmas season, people started calling me "Mary" again. I didn't mind it as a kid, and I didn't mind it this time around, either. I am happy to be confused with either of these Marys.

If you're familiar with acting at all, you may know about what some people call "post-show depression"--the difficult process of letting go of a show and a character when a production's run is over. Maybe it makes me a theatre geek, but I write a blog post for pretty much every show I'm in. It helps me to process the profound experience of taking on a character (or eight) and a story. Similar to when someone dies in a great novel you're reading, it's hard to know how to mourn a fictional character or a fictional world.

Here's my attempt.




Dear Mary Hatch Bailey,


I want to thank you so profoundly for letting me represent you on stage for the last month, and for letting me try to see the world from your perspective since August. You're a great gal to hang out with. You've taught me so much.

Inhabiting you, my reflexes were trained to keep a clearer head under stress, to be more patient and gracious when the opposite would've been much easier. How did you wait so long for this man you knew you wanted to marry? You must have been only eight years old when you leaned over Mr. Gower's drug store counter and whispered, "George Bailey, I'm gonna love you 'til the day I die."

Which means it was another ten years before you two fell in love while singing, "Buffalo Gals" and breaking windows at the old Granville House, where you wished to make a home with George--who didn't realize he wanted to make a home with you until another four years after that.

George has more words in the script, but your power often comes through speeches made in silence, with a patient heart expecting the good things that come to those who wait.

I love your generosity. You're willing to jump in and sacrifice your time, your resources, and your $2,000* because you see a need.

I love the way you use humor to comfort and encourage--how, when George comes home distraught and asks you why you married a broken-down guy like him, you quip, "To keep from being an old maid."

I love your style. I mean, I'm not gonna lie. You 40s gals really had something going on.

I love your love--for George, for Petey, Janie, Tommy, and Zuzu, for Uncle Billy, for the Martinis, for everyone who comes across your path. It seems that love is just your way of life.

To play you on stage, I've been asking myself for four months, "What would Mary Bailey do?" And I think it's sculpted me a little bit more into someone who looks like Jesus, too.

Hey, Mary, you're swell. It's been such a privilege.


Your grateful ambassador and friend,
Elizabeth Boerger Bernhardt





*$2,000 in 1932 equals $34,415.48 in 2019.