I think I’ve talked about my Lenten journey nearly every year since I’ve started my blog. Those of you who have been following along in your bulletins probably understand how valuable the season of Lent has always been to me. In the past several years, especially, God has worked mini miracles within me in the weeks leading up to the Easter celebration.
As Christians, we are an Easter people. We believe that we live with the joy of Easter not for a day but for a lifetime- even a lifetime that extends beyond the one we are currently experiencing. I think the best Lents are the same. We give a special forty-day period to God, surrendering a piece of our own will, and make an intentional effort to open ourselves up to Him. If we are honest, we often feel like we are counting down the days until we can eat ice cream again or until that Lenten class is finished. I have found, when I really give myself over to the experience of Lent, I am not counting down days until it is finished. I am in love with Easter and all it means. I cannot and will not discount that kind of joy. Still, Lent can be a time when we lay the kindling for the fire of joy that re-sparks within us each Easter. The Lenten experience will continue to burn, just as the Easter joy should continue to burn, throughout our eternal lifetime.
That all sounds pretty esoteric and abstract, I know. I am not sure I have even articulated what I mean in a relatable way. That is the problem with prying something profound and individual from one’s soul and trying to share it with the blogosphere. Let me give you this year’s example and see if that helps.
Some of you may have read my piece on my Lenten fast this year. If you would like to revisit the content, you can catch it at www.terrilabonte.com/2026/03/the-lightening-lent/ . This Lent, my special observance was to fast from perceptions of myself that would differ from God’s perceptions of me. I didn’t succeed perfectly. I still had times when I slithered into doubt and self-loathing. However, overall, it was an excellent experiment, and I think it was a worthy discipline. If I want to go to God and give Him the Terri/Dorry that He created me to be, I want to do a better job understanding and honoring that version of myself. After all, He created me elegantly and equips me perfectly. I may not always use His factory-installed or after-market equipment to their maximum effectiveness, but I’m going to keep trying. I did not want to stop this fast when Lent was finished. I want to continue.
As a reminder to myself that this Lenten devotion is part of the kindling for God’s Easter promise to me, I bought a t-shirt several weeks ago. The t-shirt proclaims, “first of all, Jesus thinks I am a delight.” I think it was supposed to be snarky, but, for me, it was an exclamation point for the end of Lent… something to tether the message to my messy mind and wrangle it towards God rather than towards Darkness.
The t-shirt has been hanging in my closet with the tags still on it. Somehow, I could not summon the emotional ownership and courage to wear it. I wasn’t ready to make a public declarative statement.
Until yesterday. I pulled it out of the closet, snipped off the tag, and pulled it over my head. I went out of the house. I looked at myself in the mirror.
Nothing bad happened because- first of all, Jesus thinks I am a delight.
We recently went on vacation to Las Vegas. I craved this vacation like a crack addict craves cocaine. Not in the way you might think, though.
Many of you know that I am a pretty risk averse person. It isn’t that I can’t throw caution to the wind now and then, but only when it is safe to do so. In other words, I like strategically scheduled spontaneity and carefully controlled adventure. Our last several vacations tried my sensibilities. I do think it is a good idea to have new experiences and broaden one’s horizons. I try to do that. However, my bar between “stretching beyond one’s comfort zone” and “reckless abandon” tends to be only a smidge higher than a worm’s belly.
In the fall of 2024, we went to the Great Smoky Mountains. I drove about 650 miles- further than I have ever driven in my life- just to get there. The Airbnb I booked was a mountain cabin. Apparently, I’ve lived in Florida long enough to completely forget how mountains work. A mountain cabin, especially one that boasts a beautiful scenic view, is likely to be at the top of a very steep, narrow, and bumpy road. Let’s remember that this was pre-cataract surgery. In retrospect, I did not have sufficient vision- much less intestinal fortitude- to navigate either the Atlanta metropolitan traffic or a mountain that clearly did not want to be navigated. The trip was wonderful in many ways. The area enchanted me. Still, I don’t think I will ever be quite the same. Any adventure gene I might have possessed decided to resign in protest… or at least to take an extended leave of absence.
In the spring of 2025, we visited Southern California. This was more familiar ground, as I lived there for 50 years. Since we flew to an airport about fifteen miles from our destination, there was not a lot of driving involved in getting there. I did have to get a rental car. This was still before I had cataract surgery. Even though I was familiar with the general area, I had this vague sense that someone had rearranged the furniture in a room I thought I remembered. That could have been simply a matter of modernization and ever-expanding development. Or it could be that I couldn’t see well enough to read street signs. Luckily, my wonderful friends Judy and Bob generously (or with a healthy regard for their self-preservation) offered to drive when we traveled any significant distance.
Finally, after cataract surgery and a season of recovery, we went to New York last fall. I have told you the tale of mini disasters that followed in our wake. Let’s not dredge that up again. I just bring it back into your memory so that you will see that I have been on three vacations that were not exactly rejuvenating.
Most people probably would not look at Las Vegas as a “relaxing” vacation. It is not low key or subtle… to state the obvious. For many people, the idea of going to Las Vegas would be the most adventurous of the past several vacations. However, I was looking forward to Las Vegas mostly for one main reason- abdication of responsibility.
Before anyone starts clutching their pearls of gasps in horror that the Terri they know as one of the most responsible people on the planet turned into a girl gone wild in Las Vegas, let me explain.
For most of our non-Las Vegas trips, I am the point person. I make the decisions. I make the reservations. I do the driving. I do the navigating. I figure out how to do stuff. Max is supportive and encouraging, but the bulk of the emotional load falls on my back. Las Vegas is his wheelhouse. He has been vacationing in Las Vegas for about forty years. He plans early and well. He is confident in his decision-making. It is not that he takes over and doesn’t consult me. He always has me weigh in, as he is always determined that Las Vegas will win me over as the ideal vacation locale.
Also, in Las Vegas, hospitality and customer service are their bread and butter. And they know it. There is always someone who seems genuinely happy to help with anything you need because they know people are paying good money that they could spend elsewhere. The idea is to make you so happy to be there and so comfortable that you keep shoving money into slot machines. Since I enjoy playing the machines for brief periods of time and then get bored, there is no danger of me overspending in that arena. Nice dinners, merchandise, shows, upgraded experiences, conveniences, pampering- probably. Gambling- no. Yes, I understand that it is all still money out of my pocket. Still, it is easier to budget for experiences than gambling. The internet makes it quite easy to know how much pampering I can afford before I ever leave the state of Florida.
Sin City does not exactly live up to its name in Terriland. I do minimal gambling. We avoid the people on the street hawking advertising for more risqué “entertainment opportunities” (read into that what you will- what you are thinking is probably right!) I have yet to drink myself into oblivion or throw up all over myself. My health requires that I moderate my carbohydrate consumption. Typically, if I have the choice to eat ice cream or have an alcoholic drink, the ice cream is going to win.
This trip to Las Vegas, I must confess, I had two “adult beverages” in four days. I also ate ice cream. I felt very racy. A fair amount of bread and pastry also entered my mouth. I ate things I really wanted to eat but stopped when I felt satisfied instead of forcing myself to keep eating if there was any deliciousness left on the plate. Since I was walking more than eight miles a day, I felt perfectly fine and my blood sugar agreed.
Aside from these venial sins, you could say our Las Vegas vacation was pretty tame. Tame does not mean boring, pedestrian, or joyless. In this case, it was quite the opposite. Tame was the chariot by which beauty, joy, love, and wonder expanded my mind. Because I felt safe and comfortable, I could let myself just be. I didn’t have to make anything happen. I could allow the special experiences to wash over me and fill me with amazement. Here is where tame took me:
We spent a day and an evening with my bestest friend from California and her husband. We enjoyed companionship, a delicious dinner, a lightening show of music by a Billy Joel/Elton John tribute performer, and an excellent breakfast. They drove nearly six hundred miles round trip to spend less than 24 hours with us. Just because we love each other.
We went to a magical immersive moving art museum right on the Las Vegas Strip. The museum consisted of a series of dark, mirrored rooms in which art and lights and projection techniques created a fantasyland that enveloped us into its essence.
We spent a morning surrounded by more beauty at the Bellagio Conservatory. Every season, the hotel revamps the garden in the conservatory to reflect a new story. I have seen multiple renditions of Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter over the years. It usually feels like I went up the beanstalk and wandered into the giant’s Fairy Land. This year, we saw floral Easter eggs bigger than cement trucks and a carousel with larger-than-life-size horses.
We visited Venice and took a gondola trip through a remarkably realistic Piazza San Marco. The gondolier sang to us. We kissed under all the bridges. We looked through the shops on the replica Rialto Bridge. I bought a piece of jewelry for myself for the first time in years.
These are just some of the highlights of our tame trip. Tame does not have to mean subdued and broken. Tame can choose to surrender to the moment.
ice cream always trumps alcoholpart of the enchanted forest in the Arte Museum of Las Vegas- he is not only gorgeous, he bounded around us like a real deer!literally surrounded by beauty- this bridge picture was in the art gallery room of the museum… it was about the size of a full-sized movie theater screen and changed lighting/colorsAt the Bellagio Conservatory- the carousel moves and towers over meEaster egg, anyone?My favorite part- having my wonderful friends of my heart with us for part of it!
I hardly know how to act. A week or so ago, I looked at my calendar and realized that my life has become underscheduled. This is a cataclysmic shift in my Universe.
I knew this phenomenon was coming. I wanted it. I planned for it. For a long time, I have been trying to capture a season of stillness. I have been telling myself to concentrate on the people most important to me. I have been telling myself that I should only take on commitments that speak specifically to my soul. I have been telling myself, as far as ministry goes, I should only do what only I can do.
The talking-tos I’ve given myself don’t usually land. More often, they crash. There is always someone who needs a little extra love and attention. There is always some activity that sounds interesting. There is always some need that cries out for me to meet it. I get caught in a weird dichotomy. I never think that I am the person who is best qualified to do anything, yet I always think that disaster will ensue if I do not volunteer.
Now that I’ve finally found some breathing space, I was not prepared for how it would feel.
As usual, Lent was a busy time. I had my array of Lenten activities to fulfill. I have also been leaning into a quiet ministry that I feel is my calling right now- providing support one-on-one to people who need love. I know a lot of people going through difficult circumstances right now. I try to be intentional about providing support and tender loving care in a way that speaks a language that the recipient best understands. Also, a very close friend in Florida picked this time to move back to Delaware. I was trying to spend as much time as I could with her and I wanted to participate in all the farewell events leading up to her departure.
As Lent wound down and I finished the planned activities, I realized that I was no longer having to look three weeks forward in my calendar to find a time slot when I wanted to arrange a date for something. I have plans on the schedule, but there ae no longer days when I have the calendar booked with back-to-back activities. I won’t have to break basic laws of physics to meet my scheduled commitments. My first reaction was a feeling of elation. For a few days, it felt so good to know that the wind of life was going to still to a gentle breeze.
Then, I got uncomfortable and flustered. I felt empty. I struggled with some decrepit demons about appearance and worthlessness that refuse to die. Finally, I realized that this reaction is rooted in a wave of insecurity. Some people fly into a flurry of activity because they feel their value comes from doing. The act of completing tasks and achieving and “being important” helps give their lives meaning. I’m not exactly one of those people. In fact, I dislike “being important” and the attention it brings. What I love and crave is connection. Attaching to people and becoming interdependent with them feeds my soul. Relationships are my coin of the realm. More scheduled on my calendar suggests more connections. When my calendar doesn’t feel overfull, I worry that my relationships will disappear. I feel I must force an intentional opportunity to keep me at the forefront of people’s radar screens, or they will detach from me.
If I am being rational, I know that more activity does not necessarily translate to more connection. I also know that the people with whom I am in relationship love me and will still love me even if they go more than a few days… or even a few weeks… without the awesomeness of my presence. I know that I have value and worth to a relationship that does not depend on busyness.
But…
What I know rationally has very little value in a conversation about insecurity. Neither does anyone else’s assurances. The fact remains that I am having an internal experience that is not congruent with reality. I can’t change it. Certainly, no amount of thinking is going to change it. Believe me, I have tried. It does not work. My stubborn heart does what it does. This time, I am not even going to waste the emotional effort of trying to force myself to feel the way my brain insists I should.
So, I go along for the ride. I pray. I meditate. I inventory my blessings. I move my body. I try to get enough sleep. I eat things that are going to make me feel holistically better instead of worse. I am gentle with myself. I surf the wave until it crashes to the shore. It will pass and I trust that I will be okay. I know I will recall the truth of my rational self. I know that God equips me in mysterious ways to be the person He created me to be.
This Lent, I realized I was standing on one side a rickety bridge. Beneath the bridge is a huge chasm of nothingness. The bridge looks shaky and difficult to maneuver. Truth be told, however, the ground on which I am standing- the ground of insecurity- is much more shaky than the bridge. On the other side of the bridge, there is steadier ground- an internal land in which I have a secure foothold on my sense of self and my worth. The other side of the bridge is the land where God’s perspective of me resides.
I would like to say that, during Lent, I courageously crossed the bridge and am happily on the other side. That isn’t quite true. This Holy Week, though, I did take enough steps to truly see the other side and begin to appreciate what living on that side feels like. This Easter, the work of my Lent culminated and the fruit ripened.
At the same time, Easter invited me to continue. Ripe fruit is delicious and I want more.
In my last post, I discussed some of my Lenten journey this year. Today, I wanted to mention another Lenten discipline I have been embracing.
Every few years, I use Lent as a time to reflect on my blessings. I like to think of the people that God has put in my life who have positively impacted my spiritual growth. I send a thank you letter each day in Lent to someone who has inspired me, helped me, or just loved me through something.
Today, I want to thank you all. Thank you for reading my blog. Thank you for encouraging me. Thank you for making it safe for me to experiment and consider the big issues of life- big issues that are sometimes displayed in the smallest of silliness. It has been such a blessing to have this creative outlet. Sometimes, it has been a veritable lifeline of mental health. At other times, it has been a pure escape to the lighter places in my befuddled brain. The act of writing, in itself, is an excellent emotional processing vehicle. Knowing there are people reading and caring makes it even more effective. Hoping that maybe I am inspiring someone or helping someone feel less alone or even just making someone laugh- these are all dreams of mine.
In short, thank you all for being part of my dream. All my life I have wanted to write, but I never had the confidence to do so. It takes a certain amount of arrogance for me to believe that anything I write could be of the slightest interest to anyone else. That may be why I started using the name Terri LaBonte. Terri LaBonte might have the confidence that Dorry Curran lacks.
Although I have been an Episcopalian for nearly ten years, I grew up in an observant Roman Catholic family. I wouldn’t say we were especially devout or even consistent, but there were certain traditions that my family followed. One of those traditions was that my parents expected my brother and I to “give up something” for Lent. As I have evolved in my own spiritual maturity, I think about Lenten disciplines differently. However, I continued to make an intentional Lenten commitment before Ash Wednesday each year.
In recent years, I’ve struggled a little to settle into a special observance every Lent. It seems that I have not always found something to do for Lent, but I have to say Lent has ALWAYS found something for me to do for Lent. I have learned that, for me at least, this tends to be the most powerful Lenten discipline- trusting in the Holy Spirit to find me where my open heart is and giving me the curriculum for what I most need to learn.
This year has been a little different. I was more than a week into Lent, and I had not felt the Holy Spirit tapping on my shoulder. I was starting to get antsy. There were a few things I had decided to do- listening to a series of lessons comparing the parable of the Prodigal Son to the novel The Brothers Karamazov, helping to coordinate and teach a Sunday School series, finishing a Young Adult Spiritual Formation Course. These all felt like appropriate Lenten observances, but not THE THING that was going to grow my soul this year.
For several days it seemed like I encountered the concept of fasting in different readings, sermons, devotionals, prayers. I decided I might be getting the nudge I needed after all. Better late than never, I suppose. But fast from what, exactly?
Typically, people think of food. That is problematic for me because of my diabetes. Also, I have never found food deprivation makes me holier- just grumpier. I have nearly 60 years as an observant Roman Catholic. I have experience with the food fasting thing. I tried to be holy. I really did. I understood that fasting is supposed to feel uncomfortable and sacrificial. However, the uncomfortable and sacrificial feeling was supposed to be a vehicle to get closer to God. It never worked for me. I doubt it will now.
Last year, I did commit to a fast- no Facebook for 40 days. It was challenging and uncomfortable… and I did find it to be spiritually refreshing. So was the additional sleep that resulted from the Facebook fast. Coming back to Facebook after Easter did show me that I engage with social media differently now. I am much more discriminating about what I view. I do not simply scroll and kill time. I read and watch only content providers that I specifically find entertaining, informative, and/or truly uplifting. I post when I want to do so but no longer feel compelled to document everything good that happens. It is a pleasant shift.
This brings us to Lent 2026. I bumbled around in prayer for awhile and then an idea came to me. As part of my own journey of self-discovery and mental health, I am coming face-to-face with a scary, painful tendency of mine. I believe a lot of really cruel and negative things about myself- things I want to believe are lies, but I can’t quite get there. I think I’ve always known about this tendency of mine but never believed I could do anything about it. I didn’t believe I could do anything about it because I couldn’t quite shake the certainty that the negative assertions are true.
In my first draft of this post, I recounted a partial list of the fundamental truths or lies I believe about myself. However, I decided I would be breaking my fast by even mentioning them. You see, this year I am fasting from engaging in views of myself that differ from God’s view of me. I have this mantra that I produced a few years ago that I tell myself when I am feeling especially wobbly…. I am a precious child of God, and I bring joy to the world. He has created me elegantly and equips me perfectly to walk the path He sets before me. I suppose this mantra is the gist of my fast this year- reprogramming my brain to believe it and honor God in it.
I don’t know where these negative perceptions of myself originate. Maybe they are things that other people tell me because, of course, everyone else’s perception is clearly much more valid than my own. Maybe they are things I tell myself because they are true. Maybe they are things that people told me so long ago they are my own. Maybe they are things Satan is telling me. I say that only half-facetiously.
I can’t make myself stop thinking or feeling the negative things- I cannot control my natural reactions. I can control my responses, however. I can choose to recognize the truth-lies when they appear and banish them.
This is the work of Lent for me this year. The rest of my observances- the classes and the studies- are not wrong or unhelpful. It is just that they feel more like busyness. My fast from engaging with the lies is the heavy lifting that nurtures growth. I hope that heavy lifting creates a shift that survives long past Easter.
I have never been much of a thrill seeker, but I’ve been thinking it is about time I shook things up a bit.
I recently began teaching a spiritual formation course for a group of young adults. The participants are between the ages of 17 and 30. I am a 66-year-old woman who has never had children. Additionally, some of the participants are also students at a nearby college for students with learning differences. The wide range of ages, life experiences, backgrounds, learning styles, and personalities would be a challenge for anyone, but it is especially difficult for someone like me. I do so love a plan, preparation, and predictable processes.
I taught this same course to our parish at large last year. It is helpful to note that our “parish at large” consists of a plethora of senior citizens, many of whom have been churchgoers their whole lives. I knew going into my young adult class that the experience would be different. I was excited about it. I looked forward to learning from them and sharing with them. I looked forward to stretching my sensibilities.
The premise of the course is that adults, young and old, have plenty of ideas, life experiences, feelings, and assorted other mental material in their brains. There is no need for the instructor to “fill them up.” The role of the instructor is to help the participants look at the stuff that has been sitting in their brains for a long time and “stir it up,” to see if it is still within the “use by” date and if it can grow richer.
I could not have known what a blessing it would be for me. Plans, preparation, and predictable processes have absolutely no place in this adventure. In fact, the experience is wild, wooly, and completely unpredictable. I would say there is no process whatsoever, but that would not be strictly true. I believe there is a process, but it is not I who has designed it. It is the Holy Spirit. I often stop for a moment and think about what a marvel it is that I have been able to step back and let the Holy Spirit truly take the reins. It is good for me to get knocked off my perch.
We have just finished session five of a six-session program. So often, my carefully prepared lesson plan has gone completely by the wayside. This week, I do not think I even picked it up. The students are driving the bus. And that is a wonderful thing. Sometimes, the segues are non-existent and the gear shifting transitions threaten to destroy the transmission. Sometimes, I am not even sure what we are talking about. However, at least once in every session, someone says something so introspective and profound that it is clear Grace has entered the building. Additionally, the students’ kindness, sense of ownership, and accountability are inspiring.
Sometimes, there is a clash of world views, even from all of us in the arms of Jesus. Sometimes, it feels a little too intense for comfort. I’m talking about my world view as well as those of the different students. We haven’t quite figured out how to settle all that, but everyone is unfailingly kind. That, perhaps, is the best world view to have. Besides, don’t “they” always say there is no comfort in growth and no growth in comfort? These students are stirring me up AND filling me up!
Thoughts, feelings, and words can be slippery things. Sometimes, I have an experience that ignites an explosion within me. I want to blog about the internal inferno but I struggle to gather sufficient shrapnel to craft a coherent response. This is one of those times, so please grant me some grace.
I recently attended the annual convention of the Episcopal Diocese of Central Florida. Some of you know that I converted to the Episcopal Church in January of 2018 after spending my life as an observant Roman Catholic. My blog body of work probably clearly screams that I am a “churchy” kind of gal. My relationship with God is the most important thing in my life. One of my highest priorities in retirement has been to find out how I can grow closer to God and to serve Him.
The Episcopal community I found in 2016 seemed to speak to my soul. For the first year or two, I largely consumed. I allowed God to feed me. I did not engage much with the other church members because my mother was on her end-of-life journey. The only life I had then was walking beside her during her time in the shadowland between life and death. Gradually, I connected with the church community and became attached. I blossomed spiritually. I began shouldering more of the family responsibilities- getting involved in activities, tithing, serving. I feel nourished by my church. I enjoy the worship and the fellowship. I have nurturing relationships with people I now believe are my family, including my pastor and his actual family. I have been very active in ministry since at least 2019.
That is the pretty picture. It is a accurate, true picture. But it isn’t the whole picture. There have been times of brokenness and despair. Sometimes, loving means hurting. Jesus talked about the blessings that are intrinsic in the painful places in life. He, himself, gave us the greatest blessing- beyond anything any of us can conceive- in the most painful place imaginable when He gave himself over for crucifixion.
I am certainly not Jesus. I am certainly not even complaining because my pain seems insignificant in the grand scheme of things. I am certainly not oblivious to the blessings God provides me- in the good times AND the painful times.
Let’s just say, though, that I’ve had my share of hurt in the church because I loved and because I tried to answer my baptismal call. There have been times when people feared me. There have been times when people misunderstood me. There have been times when people attacked me. It is difficult for me to express the beauty and depth of the bond I share with most of the people in my church… which makes it all the more painful and jarring when something happens to show me that the same brush does not paint everyone.
Over the past couple of years, the crucible of congregational development sucked me into its flashpoint. This period of metamorphosis turned a blinding spotlight on some of the more uncomfortable facets of “being church.” I got scorched by the spotlight. It took me an unreasonably long time to work my way through that period.
As my congregation grew in numbers and vibrancy, I could see so much good happening. The opportunities for personal harm paled in comparison to what I could intuitively feel happening. Church attendance seemed to be increasing. New ministries commenced. The love seemed to be growing. I spoke to my pastor about the way events played out over the past couple of years. I came to the conclusion that I would not have changed a thing. I believe most of what I tumbled through was necessary for our church to achieve this new growth. Also, I achieved much growth. Despite the pain, anxiety, and drama- probably even BECAUSE of it.
As I observed all the positive movement in my congregation, it was easy for me to think it was all in my head or to attribute it to “just happening.” Up until the diocesan convention, everything I thought I observed was intuitive rather than cognitive. Still, my gut saw it as a win and all felt right in my world.
On the first day of the convention, a social scientist famous for analyzing the dechurchification of America, discussed depressing statistics about church attendance and Christian identification. The bishop addressed the delegation on the morning of the second day to present a more optimistic perspective. He relayed a conversation he had with the presiding bishop of the United States. Our diocese has the fourth highest average Sunday attendance in the entire nation. This is a positive sign, in and of itself. The presiding bishop went a step further. He explained that, if we look at that statistic by congregation, we have the highest average Sunday attendance in the nation- over 20% higher than the second diocese on the list. I could take it even a step further. My church has a congregation that is approximately 30% higher than the average for our diocese. The bishop went on to explain that high average Sunday attendance is attributable to three factors- excellent preaching, genuinely welcoming congregations, and vibrant ministries.
As the impact of his words traveled from my ears to my brain, I felt something akin to hope warm my whole body. I even started to cry quietly. What I heard was that what my instinct observed at my church is not all in my head. My intuition now had hard data to support its truth. What I also heard was that it wasn’t “just happening.” God is using His people to make it happen. And I get to be part of that. That thought was so transcendent, my body could not contain it. The tears overflowed my spirit.
People who know me IRL understand that it is “all Tink all the time” in my world. From the time I was a baby, my parents called me TinkerBell. For years, I thought it was sweet and cute. As I got older and read the original play by J.M Barrie, I questioned that characterization. TinkerBell is not always a very nice fairy. Still- good, bad, and ugly- TinkerBell has always been my alter ego. I have endless pictures of myself with TinkerBell. I have a TinkerBell wardrobe that is the envy of four-year-old girls everywhere. Some of you may even recall that I visited the “Bippity Boppity Boutique for grown-ups” a few years back to get Tinkifying makeover. I have an adorable lime green car that I call the “Tinkmobile.”
I also have a lovely little Chase VISA card that earns Disney reward points that I save up each year to pay towards our annual passes. The uber-adorable thing about this credit card is that TinkerBell’s picture is on the front of it. Every time I pull out my credit card, I get a green glimpse of the perky pixie princess. It reminds me that there is a TinkerBell persona living inside of me. Surely, despite my frumpy elderly exterior, there is a feisty, flirty, flittery, fun fairy bursting to get out.
Tragedy struck. Somehow, my Tinker card got compromised and I started getting charged $25 per month for some weird horoscope type service. I contacted Chase to report a fraud and dispute the charges. They agreed to reverse the charges, freeze my account, and send me a new card with a new account number. When the new card arrived, it sported Cinderella’s castle and not TinkerBell. I called the bank, thinking it was an error. There are several designs a cardholder can choose for the card, so I figured the person issuing the new card just accepted the default instead of specifying my TinkerBell choice.
Sadly, this was not the case. The lady on the phone confidently said she could help me get a card with the correct design. As she scrolled the options, however, she realized that TinkerBell HAD BEEN DISCONTINUED! I cannot begin to express the dismay I felt. It was as if I had lost my identity.
Ever since that conversation, I have been trying to fill the TinkerBell-credit-card-sized hole in my heart. I have barely worn anything other than Tink-themed clothing. I managed to wear appropriate church apparel to the Sunday service. Before I returned to the church that evening to lead the young adult study group session, however, I changed into my custom-painted TinkerBell and Periwinkle (Tink’s fraternal twin, for those of you who are not up on your pixie lore) sweatshirt that boasts that “I am the third sister.”
It still isn’t working. I am feeling unmoored by this turn of events. The bank advised me to destroy the old card. I have not been able to bring myself to comply; I doubt I ever will. Grinding TinkerBell through the shredder is not on my bingo card.
I am in mourning. Max immediately started googling to find some sort of replacement product to ease my pain. The best he could find was a new floral TinkerBell spirit jersey. One could argue that while a Tink-design credit card and yet another article of pixie clothing are both nice but not exactly interchangeable. I don’t care. If my Tink credit card was my heroin, the new spirit jersey might at least function as my methadone.
We are going to Disney Springs today to buy the jersey- lest the delirium tremors begin!
Monday was our last full day in New York. We had an early morning because we had a scheduled tour of the Statue of Liberty at 9:00am. After all our transportation mishaps, I was nervous about making our way to Battery Park in time to meet the tour. I had particularly arranged this guided tour because Max really wanted to go inside the statue and the surest way to do that seemed to be taking a commercial tour. It was clear from the National Park Service website that entry to the statue itself was extremely limited.
After trains, taxis, and automobiles, we arrived at Battery Park just in time. We joined the horde of people standing around our tour guide and listened to his introductory spiel. The first disappointment of the day was that the tour of the Statue of Liberty did not, in fact, actually enter the Statue of Liberty. We could have ridden the ferry, walked around the base of the statue, and visited the Ellis Island museum all on our own for much less money and at a time that did not require us to rise with the chickens. Instead, we hiked around in the crowd while our tour guide plied us with apocryphal stories about his wife and, parenthetically, the Statue of Liberty.
We still made the best of things. I know Max was sorely disappointed, but he did an excellent job of pretending it was okay. I felt crushingly guilty, of course, because that is what I do. Take on the responsibility for everybody else’s feelings- especially the feelings of the people I love. We did enjoy seeing the scale and majesty of the statue. We did enjoy a quick run through the Ellis Island museum. The tour guide took a couple of cool pictures of us, so he was good for something. He also insisted on taking a group picture of the whole horde of us and offered, for a small fee, to share it with anyone who wanted a copy. I am not sure why anyone would want a picture of themselves and thirty of their closest strangers on the grass in front of the Statue of Liberty. I certainly did not.
After we finished the tour and took the ferry back to Battery Park, I had an agenda. We did not make it to the carousel in Central Park, so I wanted to at least ride the carousel in Battery Park. The Google Machine told me that this carousel was a fanciful trip under the sea on fish and other marine creatures. That intrigued me. This was apparently not the run-of-the-mill merry-go-round, but a magical adventure. I looked at the map of the park and found the location. Unfortunately, spotting a location on a map and getting my brain to direct my legs to that actual location is not that easy. We wandered around for 45 minutes trying to find it. To be fair, we spent part of those 45 minutes with an Orthodox Jewish missionary who stopped to try to recruit us to Judaism. There is the first time for everything.
When we finally reached the carousel (Christianity still intact,) it was not overwhelming at first. The carousel was small. The marine creatures were made of some sort of translucent plastic material. They also seemed small for carousel animals, but I acknowledge they were massive for fish. Still, after 45 minutes of searching, I was not about to leave the park without riding that carousel.
Things changed when the carousel started. The animals began lighting up with morphing pale pink, blue, green, and purple shades. The music with other-worldly. It was what I imagine a merry-go-round on LSD would be like. It was a pleasantly bizarre experience. I don’t think I got stoned from it. Although now that I think about it, I did have the munchies afterwards… and the last thing I wanted to eat was seafood.
This was our last Manhattan adventure. We even found a cab to take us back to Penn Station on the first try. We had Carvel ice cream at a shop near the train station and ate supper at a cute diner near our hotel. We slept reasonably peacefully through our last night in New York. The next day, we drove back to the airport. The first stop was to return the car. I could see the car rental place, but there seemed to be no way to get there from the road. I kept wishing we were living on Star Trek, and I could just ask them to beam me up. On about the fourth circle around the airport, I finally found a way off the main road into the car rental place. Relieved, I got rid of the car as quickly as I could. After another squeamish ride on the air train to the terminal, both Max and I let our shoulders release and our breath exhale. We were going home where we knew what to do and how to get places.
When we reached the Orlando airport, we got our bags and went to retrieve my car from the parking structure. Normally, we use valet parking, but the valet parking area was full when we left Orlando. We parked in the structure, noted the level and row where I left the car. We took pictures of the area. We thought finding the car would be super easy.
It was not. We wandered, hauling our suitcases behind us, trying to find the coordinates we noted when we left. We found the level and the row, but my car was not there. Both of us were tired, hungry, and sore. I felt like I should have stayed on Ellis Island. Pulling a suitcase, struggling with a backpack, and slinging a carry-on bag over my shoulder- I felt like I just got off the boat.
After 20 minutes of searching, I realized something. We were in the rental car parking structure, not the passenger parking lot structure.
I should not be allowed to leave my house without adult supervision.
Here’s a fun fact- when a hotel hosts rehearsal dinners and bachelor/ette parties on Friday night, they often host wedding receptions on Saturday night. And those wedding receptions are frequently as loud or louder than the Friday night activities. I now know this from experience. Just saying.
I had higher hopes for Sunday. My cousin, his wife, and their adult son were meeting us at the train station to spend the day together in Manhattan. Great, I thought; I’ll have a keeper. It was a huge relief to my cracked confidence that our survival in Manhattan did not depend on my ability to navigate.
After another uneventful train ride, we arrived at Pennsylvania Station. I had purchased tickets for all of us to take a tour on that hop on/hop off bus. We were scheduled for the opposite neighborhood tour than the one Max and I lost the prior day. We also had reservations to tour the Empire State Building. First, though, I was still on the hunt for my New York bagel. We wandered around the station until we found the recommended carbohydrate pusher. I enjoyed my bagel and we set out to find a bus stop once again. Again, the bus stop was much further away than I anticipated. I knew the M&Ms store in Times Square would be a difficult landmark to miss, so that is where we decided to get the bus. About twenty-five minutes into the walk, I casually asked my cousin what that big building was that we saw as soon as we exited the train station. “Oh,” he said, “that was the Empire State Building.” I don’t know why we walked over twenty-five minutes to catch a bus that we intended to take to… the Empire State Building.
I convinced myself that it was all going to work out to the good because I was so looking forward to a guided bus tour of SOME part of Manhattan. We finally reached the bus stop and joined the line. While we were waiting, I asked one of the employees to confirm that there was, indeed, narration on this “tour.” The employee assured me there was certainly narration. We climbed up to the top decker of the bus and settled in to see some sights. We did see sights. However, we still have no idea what those sights were because there was no narration. We disembarked the bus close to the Empire State Building. The Empire State Building Experience was great. Still no guided narration, but there was signage and my cousin was able to fill in a few blanks.
When we finished at the Empire State Building, it was clear that we were not going to be able to eat and do anything else before we planned to go back to Long Island. It was also clear that eating was imperative. Originally, I hoped to go to Little Italy for a meal, but this turned out to be as overly ambitious as everything else I had planned on this trip. Neither time nor my blood sugar was going to allow for any additional trip to get dinner.
My cousin’s son suggested we go to Bubba Gump’s in Times Square. I like Bubba Gump’s, so I was down for it. My cousin’s wife pointed out we were about seven blocks from the restaurant. I didn’t think that was a big deal. Seven blocks didn’t sound like much. I walk an average of over four miles a day every day. What I did not understand was that seven city blocks in New York City are considerably longer than seven blocks in my little subdivision. Seven blocks in Manhattan are about a mile. Since I had already walked about six miles that day and had not eaten for about six hours, walking to the restaurant was not the wisest decision. My cousin began traipsing through the crowds in the general direction of Times Square. I am sure he wasn’t truly trying to lose me, but his pace did lead me to question his intentions. I walk a lot in my normal life, but I am nowhere near as fast as my family is. Luckily, Max did not leave me in the dust. He kept right by my side and gently kept me upright.
We had a wonderful time together at dinner- talking, laughing, enjoying each other’s company. I may have been lost in New York, but I wasn’t lost in my family.
