Toy Stories

I watched Toy Story 2 again tonight. It was the first time I had seen it for years. In fact, until tonight, Toy Story 3 is the most recent part in the franchise that I’ve seen by a long stretch.

It was weird.

The last lines in the movie are an exchange between Buzz and Woody. The two friends are standing on the windowsill, a party going on in the room behind them, and they watch Andy helping little Molly take her wobbling steps out to the van and towards Mom. Buzz turns and asks Woody “You still worried?” “About Andy? Naw. It’ll be fun while it lasts,” Woody responds. “I’m proud of you, Cowboy,” Buzz tells him. Woody smiles and puts his hand on the spaceman’s shoulder. “Besides,” he says, “when it all ends I'll have old Buzz Lightyear to keep me company. For infinity and beyond.” And then the music swells and the film ends with a Motown penguin and his three Barbie backup singers crooning “You’ve got a friend in me” complete with disco ball sparkles. It’s lighthearted and fun. And when I first saw it in the theaters as a twelve year old kid, I left with a smile and a spring in my step.

Fast forward eleven years to 2010. I’m now 23 years old, graduated from college, a working girl. Toy Story 3 comes out and I gleefully rush to the theater to see it. A Toy Story Trilogy. How cool is that?

And then we get the last scene. And I’m sitting there in the dark of the movie theater, blue glow of the screen on my face, and the tears unashamedly dripping down my face. Because grownup Andy is there. And Buzz. And Woody.

And they are saying goodbye.

And Woody’s got old Buzz Lightyear to keep him company for infinity and beyond. And I can’t stop crying as I watch Andy drive away, heading off to college, leaving behind his childhood, watching it disappear in his rearview mirror.

When I was twelve, the thought of saying goodbye to my childhood seemed ridiculously far away. There was a disco ball in the last scene of Toy Story 2. Honestly, how hard could it be when there is a disco ball?

It’s hard.

We were discussing this after the film tonight. And my little sister, eight years old going on twenty-five, remarked that in all the other films, Woody fought to get back to Andy. Her insight floored me. It’s true.

In the original Toy Story, Woody battles a delusional Buzz Lightyear and a vicious brace-faced Sid to get back to Andy.
In Toy Story 2, he fights the lure of popularity and a crazy loveless Prospector to get back to Andy.
In Toy Story 3, our brave cowboy struggles against a bitter traitorous stuffed bear to get back to Andy.

In every story, he gets back to Andy. And then, in the final episode, after all the battles and struggles and pain and hardfought victories, he lets go. He says to Andy “It’s been a good run, kid. I never gave up on you. I’ve always been there for you. And now it’s time for you to grow up and I’m gonna miss you.” And he says it all without moving a muscle.

I still cry when I see that scene. I suppose I’m still learning how to say goodbye. I suppose I’ll be learning that lesson forever.

So long, Woody. And thanks.

band names

I am Jack’s Complete Lack of Surprise
Ever Full of Sap and Green
Feast of Seven Fishes
Three Blue M&M’s

but what kind of music would they play?
a band can’t be tone deaf, you know

Terminal

The doctor comes into the room, a blank expression on his face. His stethoscope is black, snaking around his throat, dark against his white coat. I am sitting on the examination table. I place my hands behind me, feel the crinkle of the tissue paper beneath me.
My doctor shakes his head. “We got the results back, Natalie.”
I sit straight up, fold my hands in front of me.
“It doesn’t look good.”
“What is it?” I ask. “You don’t need to beat around the bush.”
“It’s cancer. It’s all in your stomach and your abdomen. I’m sorry.”
“How bad is it? Can we do chemo or radiation?”
He shakes his head again. “It’s Stage Four cancer, Natalie.”
I know what Stage Four means. My best friend’s father died from Stage Four.
“How much time do I have left?” I ask.
He looks straight into my eyes. Funny how this works. I’m a ticking time bomb and I’m asking how many red numbers I have left before they count down to zero. And he’s not able to diffuse the bomb. But he can tell me how long I’ve got.
“I don’t know. Maybe three to six months,” he says. “I’m so sorry.” His eyes are starting to fill up with tears.
“Three to six months? Are you sure?”
“As best as I can guess, yeah. You should probably start getting things in order.” Is it just me or is his voice quavering?
I stick my right hand out towards him, as if we are just meeting for the first time. He takes it with his right hand, a questioning look in his eye.
“Doctor Cavanaugh, this is the best thing anyone could tell me.”
He lets go of my hand, abruptly dropping his to his side.
“Have you gone crazy?” he asks.
I shake my head no, a smile spreading itself across my face. “No. Well, it’s possible that you’ll think I’m crazy but I’m dying so you have to listen to me, right?”
He stares at me, eyes wide and confused.
“I’m not scared of death,” I say. Then I shake my head quickly. “No, let me rephrase that. I’m not afraid to die. Because I know where I’m going. Remember when I had that lump removed three years ago and you asked why I wasn’t scared? And I told you about Jesus?”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. Not that Jesus stuff again. We’ve been through this already.”
I hold up my hand, stop his flow of words, smile broadly. “I’m dying. You have to listen.”
He folds his arms across his chest, shakes his head incredulously. “Fine.”
“I know that I’ve done things that have offended God, that I deserve His wrath. But I also know that He sent His Son to die on a cross two thousand years ago to pay the penalty that I deserve. And when I die, I go to Him in Heaven. And He offers you the same opportunity.”
“You know I don’t believe in that stuff.” My oncologist is a skilled doctor and a confirmed atheist.
“I know. But it’s true.” I reply. “And I’m going to be praying for you anyway,” I tell him and I hop down off the table.
“Is there anything else I need to do now?”
He starts talking about hospice care and pulls out some forms talking about code status, health care proxies, advanced directives. I listen to him speak but I am praying harder than I’m paying attention.
I drive home, stop by the grocery store to pick up some milk for the apartment. At the checkout, the girl behind the cash register is covered in tattoos and has a metal bar through her nose.
“Do you have a discount card?” she asks, boredom oozing in her voice.
I hold out the small piece of plastic to her. She looks at my name on the card. “Natalie Howe?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I close my mouth but then I realize that I might never see her again. “Hey, by the way, is there any way I can be praying for you?”
She looks up from her keypad, sheer shock written all over her face. “Excuse me?” she asks.
“I’m a Christian. I just was wondering if I could be praying for you in any way?” I repeat. I realize I am not afraid of her opinion. Finding out you’re dying does that, I guess.
Tears fill her eyes and she begins to talk to me about her brother who is addicted to crack and overdosed last night. I promise I’ll pray for her and give her my telephone number. She smiles as I walk away. The guy behind me in line shoots me dirty looks for holding up the line and for causing a scene.
I don’t care. I guess dying does that to you, too.
As I walk outside, I look up at the sky. It’s a crisp October afternoon in New England. The sky is so blue and feels so close. A few clouds skitter across the sky. “I’m coming,” I whisper. “Soon, they’ll say I’m dead. But I’ll tell them before I go not to believe a word of it. I’m going to be more alive then than I’ve ever been.” A shiver thrills me all the way to my toes. “I’m coming home.”

Suddenly, I startle awake. I reach for my phone, touch the screen. It flickers to life. It’s 2:08am. I’ve been dreaming. But I am wide awake now. I lay back, staring in the darkness. I’m not dying. I don’t have cancer. I’ve never had cancer. But what if I did? Would I be able to talk about Jesus like that to strangers?
Would I respond like that to a terminal diagnosis? I shake my head. “I’m terminal now. I just don’t know when or what,” I think. “What’s holding me back? What’s my excuse for now?”
And I try to sleep but it’s a long time coming.

It must have cost a fortune
To give away half of your goods to the poor
And to repay fourfold what you had taken

…
Wouldn’t it have been enough to just pay them back?
To return what you had stolen and call it even?
You know, I’m sure that would have been enough
…

Maybe meeting Jesus does that
Makes you good crazy
Crazy enough to forsake the better for the best
By way of earth poverty
Crazy enough to forget the treasure at hand
For the sake of heaven
Crazy enough to love with your whole heart
Holding nothing back

I think I need to meet Jesus again

a meal indicates friendship

he knows what they will do to him
he knows the wrath that they deserve
he knows that someone must take the punishment
he knows someone will die

he sees their minds and thoughts
he sees anger and murder in their hearts
he sees the rage that they harbor toward him
he sees a hill called Calvary

he eats the bread
they eat the bread
he drinks the wine
they drink the wine

God is eating with His enemies

the middle miles

The middle miles are always the hardest

They don’t have the excitement of the first few miles
The newness of the wind rushing by my ears
The fresh feeling of my feet pounding the pavement
They don’t have the satisfaction of the final few miles
The finish line in sight
The last few steps of the race

They are just there
The middle miles
So many of them
And I just have to grind through them
Sweaty and thirsty and tired
Step by step by slogging step

Sometimes life is like that

But then
But then
Oh yes
But then

I’m closer to the finish line than the starting line
And I know there is no turning back
Because the end is near

And the crowds are cheering
And then the finish line is there
And my arms are raised in victory

And I step over the line
And I’m done
Exhausted
Satisfied
Smiling

Sometimes life is like that too

war baby

You were seventeen days old when the boots marched in
When we watched them on the television
Half a world away
Through the night vision goggles
In their greenish haze

You sat in your carseat while we stared at the pictures in front of us
You didn’t cry or scream or even make any noise
But then you were only seventeen days old
And you didn’t know that war had begun

And my belly was clenched with fear
And my hands were shaking
And my heart was quaking
And you slept on in peaceful slumber
Because you didn’t know a war had begun

So you grew up
Your blonde hair grew long
And was cut
Grew long and was cut again
And you learned how to speak
And then how to read

And still the boots kept marching
Then surging
Half a world away
But you didn’t know a war was being fought

Your daddy didn’t go and fight
Your brothers didn’t sign up
No one you knew lost their life in battle

Someone’s daddy did
Someone’s brothers did
Many people did
But you didn’t know a war was going on

And then, when you were eight years old,
Old enough to think and know and understand
The boots marched out
And you didn’t know a war had ended
Because you didn’t know a war had begun