Matthew 18:20 says, “For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.”
Matthew chapter 18 continues, “Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, ‘Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?’ Jesus answered, ‘I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.’”
We already know the story of Jesus on the cross, but I think someone can hear a story a thousand times before its meaning resonates. Yes, Jesus was crucified. Yes, He died for our sins. However, those sentiments mean so little without personal impact.
Jesus went to the cross willingly, knowing his fate and still loving his betrayer. He did not die without fear or pain or even doubt. In Matthew chapter 27, it is documented that Jesus yelled, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”. Though his intention in saying this is often debated, I think it’s perfectly clear and illustrates a very important part of His sacrifice.
Jesus never sinned, and yet he was frightened. He was hurt. He was human. A perfect human, but still human just as we are. He didn’t hang on the cross saying “This is great.” He asked God why He’d give up on his child, even when that child has done nothing wrong.
Evil persists. Humanity fails. We were given freedom, and therefore we collectively abuse it. But why would anything we do matter if we’re merely puppets? If God simply created life to control it. Eternity is perfect and we are worthy of it when we are gifted the power to choose it. That, to me, is the whole point of this short existence on earth. Evil does not negate God – it’s the absence of Him. God exists whether we choose Him or not, but He gave us that choice because we are intelligent, meaningful creatures.
God exists when we choose wrong. He exists when someone does wrong to us. He is the reward and the motivation for something better. He leaves clues for us like the petrified wood of Noah’s ark or the blood – still alive – discovered at his crucifixion site…but He is also in us. We were made by Him, from Him, of Him.
In my own words, I have asked, “My God, My God why have you forsaken me?” I have been surrounded by dark and chosen to reach through it because He was right there waiting. That is what made my choice meaningful. Long lasting. I do not believe because it’s safe or easy or because I’m scared of death. I believe because He is there whether I acknowledge Him or not. I have heard His voice, I can hear the ocean, I can smell the grass, I can sit at a table with my beloved family. I don’t need the world to be perfect to know that these things are good and that this is God. Everything. Everywhere.
So Jesus saw the dark surrounding Him and was afraid of it. That’s being human. He knows us, on every level.
Good Friday isn’t “good” because Jesus died. It was and is good because we are fortunate enough know the other half of the story. Imagine the hope, the doubt, the fear that His followers felt when they saw who they believed to be their salvation die like any other man. Imagine the relief when He turned out to be exactly who He claimed by breathing once again. Rolling away the impossibly heavy stone and walking again. Light and hope personified. A promise fulfilled and a new promise made. He did not cheat death, but defeated it, rendering what we knew of death as an endless nothing or a means of torment into something wholly good. Something eternal. True freedom. All of our existence on earth turned into something that matters.
I’m so grateful that I get to sit at a table on Easter and celebrate that promise with God’s people.
The earth stills after a long day of clatter and movement. There is anticipation in a sunrise, yes, and how exciting that can be…but there is relief in a sunset. The dark is a blanket. A reward, whether you’ve earned one that day or not. The noise is coming to a close and your shoulders can sag. There will be time for worry and rushing around tomorrow.
A sunset, I think, is God’s gift to us everyday. An explosion of color to remind us that life isn’t as mundane as we’d like to believe. There is magic, when you look for it. I see a sunset as both an end to the day and a precursor for life. A celebration of life. A reminder to slow down, no matter where you are or what the day behind you looked like. Something to look forward to, like a promise. Every. Single. Day.
My husband and I often tell stories about a magical society split into two. Impractical, sure. Divisive, unfortunately. But an answer to living in a society designed for only half of its people. Night people can simply choose to be night people, in this world. Night people have night jobs and night hobbies and the streets are safe because they are busy. Maybe that would take away some of the magic – the calm- but I was built for it either way. The morning, as beautiful as it can be, gives me a sense of unease. I wake up early, groggy and grumpy for hours. Sick, even. Unable to eat. By the time I’m full of life, the sun is setting once again. Bed will beckon soon because life demands it that way. Everyday I fight against my natural rhythm and the obnoxious sun for the sake of participating in the world we have built. No one talks about how overwhelming sunlight can be when you’re bustling around.
How much simpler life could be, I wonder, if every day wasn’t a fight against that rhythm, a cup of coffee in hand just to survive. How much more pleasant we could all be if we learned to appreciate one another for what comes naturally, rather than fight about which way is superior. If we could appreciate and make room for what we are all good at/built for, rather than pushing one another into one uniform way of life just because it’s what we’ve been doing for a while.
I’m so glad that there are sunrise people. Early risers. Sunset people. Middle-of-the-night people. Middle-of-the-day people. How beautiful it is that we are so varied, fulfilling and appreciating each part of our existence.
I stood stock-still, staring at myself in the bathroom mirror as a wave of pain came and went. 10 seconds, I counted. Only 10. A small miracle, I decided, as the memories of the last time I felt that deep burning in my stomach flashed in the back of my mind. A constant reminder that I’m a ticking time bomb. A constant reminder to be ready at all times, even though there’s no preparing for it. There’s no relief.
Will I survive the next time? Will I be carried out of my home in the hands of an EMT who will scroll on his phone in the ambulance as my eyelids flutter with my failing efforts to stay conscious? Will I once again dig my nails in my poor husband’s skin and beg for death?
How many times do I have to scream, until someone hears me?
Doctors have to hear it all day – the complaints, valid or not. Exaggerated or not. But I don’t ask for help. I don’t like to be a bother. My pain tolerance is high and my disdain for strangers prodding at me keeps me away from their prying hands…it took the little strength I had left, the loss of my pride, the primal desperation to survive despite my verbal pleas otherwise, to ask for help. But my quality of life is rapidly depleting and I have no more answers than the day I started asking questions. I can’t survive hearing “That’s normal,” ever again.
I wonder if I’ll still hear it as I’m lying on my deathbed. I wonder how long I can wait, helpless, for someone to listen long enough to fix me before I’m too far gone. I wonder if I’ll ever be healthy enough to manage normal things like keeping a tidy house and maintaining hobbies and having children. I wonder if it’s too late. I wonder when the constant pain, sickness, and exhaustion will drive me to insanity.
It’s been over a year of loss. My friends, family, my health. It’s been a painful, awful, lonely time in spite of the small joys in between. A lifetime of confusion and endless effort. I’ve thrown my hands to the sky and asked God, “What have I done so wrong?” with no reply. I still have faith, after everything. I still do, because I have so little else left. So I keep trying, despite myself. I take what I can get where I can get it and pray through the tears.
I pray to know what healthy feels like, I pray for a world that makes more sense, I pray for a more empathetic world, I pray to become the kind of person people want to keep around, I pray for those I have lost. I pray, because I need someone to hear me. Because it’s all there’s left to do.
I once found solace – refuge – in the love of my childhood. Allowed it to follow me into adulthood. The spark, though changed over and over again, is still there. A lifelong hyperfixation that brought about a sense of community, a sense of belonging, that I never could quite find anywhere else…not even in church, as frightening as it may be to admit aloud. There is nowhere on this earth that’s free from judgment, but the closest I’ve ever come is in Disney. My quirks may remain simple quirks, my insecurities seem so normal while surrounded by a whole array of differences, and people are generally so damn happy to be there that it’s palpable. Even while we’re all nearing heatstroke in the dead of summer, there’s a sense of comradery among the throngs of people everywhere you turn. People are softer in Disney. Tired, overwhelmed, excited. I get compliments on my weirdest outfits from people I’ll never see again, just because they want to. I can be social in the ways that come naturally, without condemnation. All the promises of church-life that I never really got to experience.
Call it blasphemy if you will, but it’s where I can be who God made me, unabashedly. It’s no secret to anyone who meets me that my love for Disney runs deep…hell, if the tattoos don’t give it away then it’s bound to come out in conversation soon enough. I fear I may be the epitome of the “Disney adult” stereotype on the outside, but I can’t bring myself to care enough to water down the passion. It’s been ingrained in me as long as I can remember, and it’ll always be a part of me in some way.
But this isn’t a story meant to justify a lifelong passion (or obsession, to be more accurate). It’s meant to say: I clearly care deeply about Disney, so naturally I have had a lot of memories made there. Most good, but even Disney can’t erase heartache. Not fully.
At 8, I was giggling as my Dad feigned dramatic fear over my erratic control of our flying carpet. At 14, my brother hovered over me in the wave pool to keep me safe. At 21, I held my friends’ hands in each of my own, moments before the first Tower of Terror drop – a drunken promise to face my fears.
My ex proposed to me at the Polynesian Resort during the Happily Ever After fireworks. A good idea, in theory, that would eventually lead to the emotional ruin of two of my all-time favorite things in the world. I spent the year after our breakup averting my eyes every time I boarded the ferry to Magic Kingdom, so I wouldn’t have to look at the place I’d once loved as I passed by, the hundred other memories in the exact same spot quickly replaced with one Big Bad Feeling. I felt like I was losing my mind the couple of times I didn’t get out of Magic Kingdom quickly enough, suddenly surrounded by ear-splitting banging and the ironic lyrics “Reach out and find your happily ever after.”
But, over time and through a lot of exposure therapy, those painful memories faded into unfortunate stains on the places I still loved. Temporary setbacks. Eventually, my now-husband took me to see the fireworks again. He sat with me on the beach of the Polynesian and we ate Dole Whips, and he reminded me that no one was allowed to take away any more of me than they already had. I had my dignity, my time, my sanity, my security, my safety, so much taken away. I felt pain I didn’t know existed. I did things I never thought I would. I spent months doing nothing but drinking and hating God for making me so blind. For not protecting me. For not letting me have anything left to enjoy. But I learned how to take what was stolen back, including the places I once enjoyed going; the things that had love woven into them by people other than my abuser.
The pain wasn’t linear – I will never be the same – but I can love the same things if I choose to. I don’t have to hate the things that brought me joy just because I shared them with the wrong person.
So I returned to Disney. I returned to the Polynesian. I watched the fireworks with my husband and cried, not because I was in pain, but because I couldn’t believe how happy I’d become. I didn’t think of the hurt anymore, not with the most important things. Those things became my things again and they, in turn, became our things. Mine and my husband. Magic Kingdom and the Polynesian and the fireworks and all of it were ours. I finally got to share what I love with someone who doesn’t simply tolerate it. Or me. (Cue TolerateIt by Taylor Swift).
We had our wedding there, at the Polynesian. I think some people thought I was weird for that, given the history, but it was fully ours by that point. I have dreamed of a princess-like moment at the Polynesian for my wedding since I was a child and no one, according to my husband, was going to ruin that. My ex called me a princess when he wanted to mock me for caring about anything, but my husband calls me Princess because he actually thinks I’m the embodiment of a real-life Disney princess. Ridiculous, yes, but so endearing. We got married by the banyan tree. We took over-the-top castle photos and I wore a ball gown and by the time the ceremony began, he’d already given me the most magical moments of my life. We changed out of our regalia, and had a laid-back day at the resort with family.
Weddings, by nature, are a disaster. No matter how simultaneously chill and meticulous of a bride you try to be, things will go wrong. No matter how kind and accommodating and open-minded you try to remain, you’ll be tested. Your feelings will get hurt. Family will be selfish, friends will show their true colors, and if you don’t have a good planner you may end up sitting in your mother’s car a half hour before the ceremony starts hysterically laughing because you don’t even know if they actually set the damn thing up. That’s a story for another time, but even with the difficulty, there will be good. There will be people who support you, who know your heart, who love you loudly. The person who loves you wholly, standing at the end of the aisle, is the best part of it all.
So much of our wedding day was pure chaos, even downright disaster. As grateful as I am for what we ended up with, and as much as I love Disney, I am in the majority of brides who walk out of the experience thinking “Damn, we should’ve just eloped.” Or, at the very least, wishing we could do it again knowing what we know now. But despite all that, I can’t look back at our wedding day and not be joyful.
Last week, I wanted to revisit that place. I wanted to go back and see it again, just because I can. If you’re a die-hard Disney fan or if you’ve been to the Polynesian recently, you may already know where I’m going with this. On our one year anniversary, we ate nachos at Captain Cook’s and shared a Dole Whip, just like on our wedding day, but it was late and we still had to drive home so all we did was eat and leave. I knew my yearly waterpark trip with my mom was coming up soon, and as our officiant, she wanted to revisit the big banyan tree as well, to relive the best parts of that day; to get sappy and sentimental and think about how much has changed.
Arm-in-arm we walked on the boardwalk, laughing and full of energy, when I turned the corner and all the joy got sucked out of the both of us. The beach, the alcove, the beautiful tree, was all dirt. Rubble. A grey slab of concrete in its place.
I knew the truth, I knew that mass of concrete was sitting right where I was headed, but I refused to accept it. Laughing, nervously at this point and probably looking like a lunatic, I picked up my pace until I found the pathway I’d walked only a year and a half ago, bouquet in hand. Construction noise, hard hats, go-away-green walls, and a very confused cast member stared at me as tears rolled down my face. My mother hugged me when I realized it was really gone; all of it turned to dust for the sake of another building we probably didn’t need.
After my abuser left, I couldn’t shake the thought that God was bored and I was His toy. That’s how it felt – that no matter how much right I tried to do or how much I praised Him, He was never going to let me keep a good thing. I haven’t had that thought in about a year, but I was reminded of that same twisting pain in my gut that day. I felt betrayed.
I know that I am not some special force for divine change. I know that God isn’t targeting me and only me, but that sense of betrayal is harder to fight than anyone prepares you for. No one signed off on this project with an evil grin saying, “I will destroy the place Gabrielle loves. She doesn’t deserve nice things!” I don’t think I deserve pity. I got married in Disney World to my favorite person, for Pete’s sake. We have a house and life is good and I am finally content…I have no reason to believe anyone is out to get me. But that didn’t stop me from staring out at that construction site wondering why life isn’t ever simple, crying like a child, frozen in place.
It felt like a cosmic joke. It felt like my abuser won, in some way. I thought my husband and I had both been through enough for a lifetime…or at least a little while longer than this. Sometimes, you let your guard down and you’re once again unprepared for pain, despite telling yourself you’d never let it surprise you again. Sometimes, you just want a win. Sometimes, you’re tired. Sometimes, you want to feel like the things you love aren’t going to be inexplicably torn away from you.
Oh trust me, I know. I know it’s not a sign that everything I love gets ruined or that we don’t deserve nice things or even that God is an angry father figure I can’t seem to please. I tell myself I know these things, because logically I do. Trees get torn down everyday, especially in an ever-changing environment like Disney. It was a lesser-used half of a very popular and very expensive resort, and I even think the tree itself is getting moved to a different location. Times change, places change, we move on. “Keep moving forward,” as they say. But I’m a sucker for nostalgia, for both the greater history and my own. Some things deserve to be preserved. Maybe on a grander scale, this is not one of those things, but on a totally personal level it is. For every other couple who stood at that beautiful banyan tree, it is.
Maybe one of those couples got divorced and there’s a man or woman out there saying “Thank God, it’s gone.” I was surely happy to see the fireworks show get replaced for a couple years, despite the amount of sentimentality it must’ve held for others.
Maybe it doesn’t have to mean anything at all, to anyone. For now it does, to me if no one else. This feeling of loss and frustration is not unique, but it is extremely specific. In all honesty, I don’t know what to do with it. I’m not even sure what the point of talking about it is, but some things in life manage to turn a grown woman back into a little girl, crying over something insignificant, knowing deep down it’s not actually insignificant at all.
He judged those who caused direct harm to others. He never judged a person faced with a complicated decision, a lack of knowing better, a mistake. He understood that little in life is black-and-white; YOU are not simple. Your choices are not simple. Your life is not simple. The practice and understanding of individuality and nuance are essential to joy, to work, and most importantly to maintaining faith.
Remember often to be a Jesus in a culture that praises Pharisees.
Gabrielle Mclean 