Tangled

I watched this movie with my little guys on Sunday night.

"The best Disney movie yet," the reviews said. In addition, some of the boys' very favorite people have claimed this as their newest favorite flick. Well, by all means. Pop the popcorn. Let's snuggle in.

If you haven't seen it, it's the story of Rapunzel, with the classic Disney brilliance. She is born a beautiful princess, but on the day of her birth, a witch steals her out of her cradle in the castle, hungry and greedy for the power in her golden hair. She wisks her off to a tall tower, where Rapunzel spends the rest of her days, forbidden to leave.

As her 18th birthday draws near, Rapunzel wishes to leave, to see the world, to venture out, to know more. Her "mother," the evil witch who has betrayed her from the start, forbids her to leave. And so Rapunzel is left with only one option: to venture out on her own, to steal away, to see what this world might have for her.

I have to tell you... I identified with Rapunzel, more than a little.

As I watched, the parallels began to unfold in my mind.

Grief is my tower. Holding me captive.

Just as the witch fed lies to Rapunzel to keep her imprisoned, so does the Enemy plant lies within me to keep me from spreading my wings.

"You're not safe. You're not smart enough. You can't do it. Just stay inside. You're safe in this world of darkness. This is where you belong."

And yet I beg to leave. Not to leave Robb behind, but to embrace the joy and newness that might be waiting on the other side of this healing.

And everyday, Grief and I exchange a silent dialogue. "Can you set me free today? Can I take Robb in my heart and venture outside the tower?"

And often, Grief says no. And sometimes I give in. And I live in darkness of another day, the chains of withheld wishes and broken dreams, the belief that I'm really safest if I don't try anymore.

Still, on stronger days, I fight back. I say, "Not today. You don't win today. I'll take him in my heart, and I'll do this thing. Back off, you. Today, I say yes."

There is a scene in the movie, shortly after she leaves the tower, when adorable Rapunzel is torn between her conflicting emotions. "I'm freeee!... This is horrible! What was I thinking?! ... This is the Best Day Ever!... I'm a despicable person... I love today!..."

Back and forth she bounces, in her mind and on the screen.

I get this, too.

The conflicting emotions, the mess in my head: "Robb would want me to do this. But I'm doing it without him. But he would be proud of my courage. But I wish to tell him about it. But it feels good to make a decision, but he might have made it differently. But if I'm happy, then I'm not sad. And if I'm not sad, then maybe I'm forgetting. And if I'm forgetting, then I'm not faithful. And if I'm not faithful, I'm not keeping a promise. But it feels good to breathe fresh, clean, joyful air. But my heart burns within me. This is a beautiful day... oh my, what on earth was I thinking."

I get you, Rapunzel. I get you.

There is certainly no power in my goldilocks, but there is a stream of joy that runs within me, a city of God that brings gladness. And that, that right there, is what the Enemy wishes to hold captive. High in a tower. Locked up tight.

In the end of the movie (and I don't think I'm ruining it for you), she finds herself. She finds joy, she dances, she laughs, and she is reunited with those she had lost for so many years. She learns she was the lost princess, all along.

I'm not at the end of my story - far from it. But I'm in pursuit of myself, of the self God has for me - the glory he has for himself - in this journey of leaving the tower.

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair."

I believe today, I shall.

I promise to try.

Dream Encounters

My brother sent me an email...

I had a dream about Robb last night. It was very short. I don't know what to make of it, if anything. But I wanted to tell you.

In my dream...

I was in the concourse area of a large stadium crowded with people. I was just walking aimlessly, and suddenly the crowd parted and Robb was there with his back turned to me. He turned toward me.

He was wearing a red button down short sleeve shirt, and shorts.

He had lost weight, but looked very healthy.

He just stood in place and smiled at me.

I didn't run to him, but I certainly had a purpose in my walk toward him now.

We had a strong, fierce hug.

Then he leaned back out of the hug, still holding my shoulders,

and looked me in the eyes.

"Is she ok?"

"Yeah," I said.

Then I woke up, with tears in my eyes.

There is so much to love about this… it's so very easy to imagine. Robb wouldn't need to use my name with my brother. "Is she okay?" They would both implicitly know who 'she' is.

And, the crazy thing, Robb was wearing the same clothes in a dream I had of him a few weeks ago.

Last night, I dreamt of him again. We didn't talk very much, and I didn't ever look directly at him. But I knew he was there. It's like we were walking alongside one another, strolling and chatting. We ate chips and guacamole (we tend to eat mexican food on our dream dates).

He showed me his new home: spacious and palatial. And I just remember saying, again and again, "I can't believe this is yours! I can't believe this is yours!"

I don't know how dreams work. I don't know what they mean; I'm not an analyst.

But I like to hope he has the same memory this morning.

Rearview Mirrors

In time, years, dust settles.

In memory, ages, God emerges.

Then when we look back, we see God's back.

God reveals himself in rearview mirrors.

And I've an inkling that there are times when we need to drive a long, long distance, before we can look back and see God's back in the rearview mirror.

Maybe sometimes about as far as heaven - that kind of distance.

~ Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts

I Didn't Go To Church Today.

At Starbucks this morning, I stood in line behind a woman in her yoga gear, her stretchy pants and top complete with damp rings and circles of sweat. Her curly hair is pulled up in a loose ponytail, with damp, frizzy ringlets escaping here and there. Clearly, she has just finished a Sunday morning workout. Perhaps one of those 'hot yoga' classes that might as well take place in a crockpot. She's done her time this morning.

On the back of her neck, she has a tattoo of bold, thick letters: FAITH.

She orders her drink; I order mine.

As we wait for our beverages, I (unintentionally) eavesdrop on her cell phone call.

"Can you tell me - is today Palm Sunday?" she asks the person on the other line.

She, with the tattoo on display, calls someone to make sure: Is today important?

It is.

The truth is, I am only barely ahead of her with my own awareness. Two weeks ago, I asked my worship-planning, pastoral leading, professor friends, "Hey, when is Easter?"

"It's April 24, Tricia," they said, with grace.

Miss Tattoo On the Neck and I could have nearly missed the whole event.

So yes, it's Palm Sunday.

And I didn't go to church today.

I've gone to church nearly every Sunday of my life, barring illness or the occasional family vacation. But I was certainly in attendance on every Palm Sunday. It's an important day on the Christian calendar: it marks the beginning of Holy Week.

The children often parade through the aisles of the church, waving palm branches. Adults and children alike sing our favorite songs, and we wave our arms, singing, "Hosanna! Hosanna!"

We celebrate the day when the long awaited King arrived in Jerusalem, the day that marks the end and the beginning, the fulfillment of prophesy, the walk to the cross, the death, the resurrection, the ocean of grace, the answer to life.

It's a joyful Sunday.

And today, I didn't go.

It's not because I didn't want to; it's not because I don't care. It's not because I didn't know what day it was.

But as I felt the pull on my heart - the awareness of the calendar, the call of the evangelical culture, the beckon to the fanfare and celebration - I weighed it against other truths.

Public scenes induce panic. The church, however safe on a personal, relational level, incites memories and physiological response that distract and discourage, to say the least. I hope this will not always be true, and I long to fellowship and worship alongside the community I love so dearly.

But right now, I cannot.

To go would be to push through, to conquer an emotional milestone, to add my notch to a checklist of legalism, to simply survive the experience.

I'm pretty sure Palm Sunday isn't supposed to be about any of that.

So I resist. I resist the call to the fanfare, the tradition. Although it is beautiful, it may be numbing instead of celebratory, especially as my tender heart seeks to protect itself - even as I massage it to remain vulnerable.

Authentic thought calls me to pay attention. To engage.

Today, as I begin this Holy Week, I aim for something new. I'm not at church; I'm not sitting in a pew. I'm at Starbucks, in my regular spot at the corner table. With my laptop, my iPod, my Bible, my journal, and some studies on Holy Week, I wait for God.

Holy God,

Meet me here. Show me where you are.

Show me what this is about.

Show me how to celebrate.

Quietly.

Where you are.

There are no palm branches. There is no fanfare. But there is a heart in search of truth and life, goodness and grace.

"It's tempting to bolt through Holy Week--to hear the starting gun at Palm Sunday and race as fast as possible to the finish line of Easter morning. Such a sprint is really not possible. . . Our Lord didn't race through the days. Each came in succession with purpose. Yes, Easter is glorious. But if we don't slow down and walk the way of the Cross with Jesus, it is really little more than a party with no sacrifice, a celebration with no understanding.

"Scripture shouts our own fickleness as humans--our own human tendency to go from declarations of praise to pronouncements of deception. When we take our time to walk slowly through the week called 'holy', we must see ourselves: we are happy to cry 'Hosanna!' as long as the King meets our needs, our perceptions of what is good and right and best for 'us.' When he falls short of our expectations, we cry, 'Crucify him!'

"This week called holy brings us face to face with humanity. . . who am I in the story? . . . Am I perpetrator or victim? Am I Pharisee or disciple? If I am disciple, am I Judas or Peter? When am I Pilate, washing my hands of the trouble making Jesus? And when am I Simon of Cyrene, willing to carry the Savior's cross for a few steps?

"Woe to us this week. Woe to us, the people called Christians, if we fail to slow down and examine our hearts, our attitudes, our actions. . . . Woe to us if we dash to Easter and fail to walk this way of the cross through the Passion of our Lord."

~ Elizabeth Sausele,

Buhoro, Buhoro: Step by Step Slowly Through Holy Week

It's Palm Sunday. I didn't go to church today.