Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Crying in 3-D Glasses

I had never been to an IMAX 3-D movie before.
An 8:50 showing on date night.
2 tickets for $25.
(cough, cough)
We walk to the very end of the hallway which opens up to a separate section. 
Just for IMAX.
We walk into the theater holding ridiculously goofy looking shades.
I see the screen.
Quite intimidating really.
It seems to engulf me along with the wall.
The sound in that space is palpable.
I was overwhelmed by the pre-movie IMAX promo.
I am beginning to understand that $25 is really paying for an experience.

The Amazing Spiderman was the film.
And it was a fine piece of Hollywood Blockbuster-ness.
I really like Emma Stone. 
Well, her acting. I don't know her.
But I find her characters endearing and girl next-doorish. And I like that.

I was doing fine.
Me donning my 3-D eyewear like everybody else.
Engaged in the story and working out my anxiety of being in such a large, loud space...I think that's rooted in a control issue I have.

And then the movie could have halted.
I couldn't enjoy the experience anymore.
In the middle of a big film on a big screen with a big reptilian villain, I chance a glimpse of a little girl sitting in this theater watching this spectacle.

Suddenly, I am nauseous.
I can hardly sit in my seat.
All our technological advancements mean heartbreak for me.

For the last hour of the film, I look more at that precious mop of blonde ringlets than what I paid to see.
Each fight scene is a little harder to endure.
Each scripted scream diverts my eyes to this little face to search for tears or upset or fear.

I want to scoop her up.
Play with her.
Tell her she's loved and special.
Protect her.
But I do all I know to do 
- that which doesn't feel like enough but is best.
I pray for her.

I pray that somehow God would protect this little girl from what she sees.
That somehow, though she sees, she would not see. 
Not remember.
Only God could answer such a prayer.
I pray He would keep her safe and secure. 
Something I can't do and don't feel her parents are doing either.

Finally, the credits roll and the tears fall. 
I can't move.
Or look my husband in the eye.
I just watch her leave and let my heart hurt.

He slips his arm around me while I silently emote.
He knows there is nothing really to say.
I wouldn't know how to say it anyway.
I just hurt. Deep and through.

I wonder at myself.
At these goings on inside.
Why? What? Where?

After three long years of desert, I am bearing emotional greenery again.
But this night, feeling something means hurt and pain.
I am ok with that.
Pain means I am alive.
Waking up to life. 
That's what I have been created
Abundant life, actually.
Having life abundant means I fully engage in the world around me.
All it's facets and angles and offerings.
Sweet and bitter. Easy and difficult.

For this night, blonde toddler ringlets were a reminder that God is doing a resurrection work in me.
For this night while I wear 3-D glasses, God is bringing me to life. 
No more two-dimensional desert dwelling for me.

And I I awake, for what work is He preparing my ever-emerging heart?

Whatever comes, I don't want to forget how I feel tonight. 
I want it to drive me to faith. to passion. to action.

There's a whole hurting world in need of resurrection work in their life. 

And maybe, just maybe, the resurrection work God is doing while I wear 3-D glasses will help to bring life to another...maybe even a precious toddler with blonde ringlets.

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