In the summer of 2006, I got my first post-college job (Los Angeles Times) and moved (again) out of state. I moved in with my grandma, whom I’d always been close to. It was always supposed to be temporary, but her state of health and my state of mind were about to clash in profound ways, a season of grace and mistakes that maybe I’ll write about another time.
I was young, ambitious and lonely. I worked in a cubicle with a very L.A. cast of characters (two of the women with whom I shared office space were in lawsuits with their boob-job doctors, no kidding) and I existed in a weird cocktail of bored, overwhelmed and scared stiff. Half my job was mind-numbingly dumb (an ideal fit for A.I.) and the other half made my voice crack with nerves.
I was three months away from making new, lifelong friends, nine months away from falling in love with the man who would become my husband, but of course I didn’t know that at the time. The L.A. Times was going bankrupt and I was going crazy, teetering around the edges of despair, wondering what on earth I would do if my fears came true. (Spoiler alert - they did - and I made it. A good thing to remember.)
Anyway, some friends from Oregon brought their family to Disneyland for vacation, and on the last night of their trip they invited me to come see them. This was back when the ticket was a paper ticket, no face-scanning or chip-checking or other Tony Stark-level tech required, and so they gave me one of theirs and I waltzed into the park with them for an hour or so. At the end of the night, they said I could keep the ticket - they were going home the next day - and so I took it to the passholder office and upgraded it to a yearly pass - an extra-special gift as I was making ~$20k in my soul-sucking but supposedly super-worth-it-just-hang-in-there job.
Disneyland is a magical place - it really is - but it was truly magical for me in that season. I could feel the decline of my grandmother’s health in my bones, as well as the deflating of the balloon that was my ill-conceived print journalism degree and consequent dreams. My hopes were rapidly collapsing as I drifted further and further from what I thought my life would look like, but I honestly didn’t have a lot of better ideas, or better options.
So, in an effort to combat despair, after work, at least a couple of nights a week, I went to Disneyland. I actually don’t recall riding rides, although I’m sure I did. I just walked, in a place that felt safe, joyful and put together. A place where men were invested dads and jocular performers, rather than the vaguely threatening men in my work and world who watched me, winked at me and asked me leading questions or invited me out, with constant hunger in their eyes, their hands wanting to wander closer and closer to me in ways that made me pull my sweaters around myself. I liked the storytelling, I liked how good always won, I liked the sincerity of the stories told, in such contrast to the tales I heard around the office of alimony and accusation.
One night at Christmastime, I bought myself hot cocoa and stood under the lights of Main Street as it began to snow - a moment of Disney magic if ever there was one. Kids were chasing snowflakes and each other, Christmas music played over the speakers and - this will surprise none of you - I cried. I cried because seeing happy kids and families always makes me cry, there’s a sense of nostalgia and safety that wraps itself around my heart, I believe such innocent joy is a glimpse at coming Glory. I cried because I wanted to be safe, too, because I was chasing safety with my hot cocoa in a paper cup and my imaginary escapes but my life was not safe and I could feel the threat following me, even in a place of magic. I cried because good stories should make us cry, because the deepest places of us are places of longing, in which we know that healing and meaning and hope are just… right… there.
Fast-forward 18 years. Adam and I took our long-awaited family on a long-awaited vacation to Disneyland. Isaiah loves Star Wars, Adelay loves Minnie and fairy tales, Jesse loves a good time and snack foods, so Disney is his Olympics. We had one Big Kid Day of the three days of Disney magic (Adam’s Dad and Katie kept Jesse for the day, never underestimate the power of grandparents). That evening, Adam and the kids went to ride Star Tours one more time while I figured out a dinner reservation. I got on the list at Blue Bayou (side note - Adam and I had an amazing date there one time while we were dating and hoped to take the kids - so fun that it worked out) and took a few minutes to walk around while I waited for my family.
The castle was lit, music was playing. The lights of Main Street twinkled as they always have, inviting you in for a treat, a toy, something unnecessary but isn’t that the point? Isn’t that what grace does?
I walked for a while and then sat on the bench by Walt and Mickey, taking it all in and remembering my lost and lonely younger self, who was also looking for magic. And then, there, running toward me in the dark, was my little gangly boy in his hoodie, yelling “Mom, Mom! I saw Darth Vader!” and my handsome outdoorsy husband with his much-too-intense mountain-ready backpack on, grinning at me, and my tall, beautiful girl, all innocence and playfulness, putting her hand in mine. And I remembered how almost 20 years ago, the only thing I had to hold onto in this place was a paper cup. I remembered how unsafe I used to feel. I remembered that even unspoken prayers get answered.
Life is not a fairytale, but sometimes, dreams do come true. Miracles call to our hearts because here, in our grimy little world, where we work and play and make mistakes, magic still happens.
So true! Dreams becoming reality is what makes our lives like fairytales ✨
Tears in my eyes.. just beautiful Friend!