Updated: Mar 18
For years, people have argued about whether Jack could have fit on that floating door with Rose in the movie Titanic.
Personally, I’m not convinced he could have. Physics aside, the door was already barely holding one freezing person above the water. Two probably would have sunk it. But that debate was never really the part of the movie that stuck with me.
The moment that always stayed with me is when Rose realizes the rescue boats are coming. She understands she might actually survive. And then she has to do something almost unbearable.
She gently pries Jack’s frozen fingers off the door and lets him drift into the dark water below. All the while she promises him, “I’ll never let go. I’ll never let go.”
Which of course sounds like a ridiculous contradiction.
Because she literally lets go.
And yet… she keeps the promise.
Rose survives. She builds a life. She has adventures, loves, children, and memories. She lives the kind of full, complicated life Jack believed she deserved. And at the end of the story, she drops that enormous diamond into the ocean.
People always ask why she did that.
Maybe it belonged with the memory of that moment.
Maybe it was her way of returning something sacred to the past.
Or maybe she just didn’t want treasure hunters and film directors fighting over it.
Who knows.
Jack and Rose aren’t real.
But the truth the story is trying to tell absolutely is.
Life continues.
Even after loss.
Even after grief.
Even after the moment when you realize someone you loved is no longer walking beside you.
A few years ago I was golfing alone on a cold, windy day. The kind of Minnesota day where it’s about forty degrees and the wind is blowing thirty miles an hour. Most reasonable people stay home in that weather.
Minnesotan golfers do not, and apparently neither do I. Sometimes I have no good sense. If you love the game enough, you’ll play until the courses finally shut down for the season.
The course was mostly empty that afternoon. Just the sound of wind and the occasional thud of a golf ball.
Earlier that week I had seen a news story about something called a “wind phone.” Someone had mounted an old rotary phone to a tree so people could call loved ones who had died.
It sounded a little strange.
A little woo woo.
A little mystical.
But also… kind of beautiful.
I didn’t have a rotary phone on that golf course. But standing there alone in the wind, I thought about my friend Robin. Her death anniversary was coming up. This was in November.
I remembered our last conversation. She had asked if I wanted to go with her to see the U.S. Open in New York. It had become a tradition for her.
I told her I couldn’t make it that year. “Maybe next year,” I said.
Of course next year never came for her.
Standing there on that quiet golf course, I found myself talking into the wind.
I told her how much I missed her. I told her I thought we would have had so much fun golfing together. She played tennis in college before a hip injury ended it, but I always thought she would have loved golf too.
We would have had so many ridiculous golf outings.
Bad shots.
Good shots.
Laughing at each other’s terrible putting.
But then another realization hit me.
We will never make new memories together.
That’s the part of grief people don’t talk about enough.
The memories you already have become incredibly precious.
But the future you imagined together quietly disappears.
And my friend Kimi once said something that stuck with me.
“It’s really sad when you look at it that way.”
And it is.
Because grief only exists where love existed first.
You don’t mourn people who didn’t matter.
You mourn the ones who changed you.
Which brings me back to Lent.
Lent is often framed as a season of sacrifice or discipline. But at its heart it is also about learning how to live with loss. The entire Christian story moves toward the cross. Toward grief. Toward the moment when people who loved Jesus believe everything they hoped for has ended.
And yet the story doesn’t end there.
Life continues.
Love continues.
The people we lose never completely disappear from the story of our lives. They become part of the way we move through the world.
Part of the way we love other people.
Part of the courage we carry forward.
Rose let go of Jack’s hand. But she carried the life he believed she could live.
I think grief sometimes works the same way.
We let go.
But we don’t forget.
I don’t have many regrets. But the regrets I do have are the things I didn’t do. The choices and chances I didn’t take.
Tell your friends you love them.
Do the thing.
Go to the U.S. Open.
Because maybe that’s the last adventure you’ll get to have with that person.
Her birthday is in April, and like on that cold November day, I’ll walk a golf course alone and speak into the wind. I’ll have that familiar conversation with Robin. I’ll tell her all the ridiculous stories I have to tell her since we last spoke. I’ll tell her I miss her. I’ll tell her the world is on fire and that my world feels less bright without her.
I wish I had some uplifting thing to say.
I don’t.
Because grief is like that.
It’s about sitting in the sadness and experiencing the loss. Letting go isn’t just about moving on. It’s about accepting what is no longer there.
Lent Reflection:
The apostle Paul writes in Epistle to the Philippians 3:13–14:
“But one thing I do: forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal…”
I don’t think Paul meant pretending the past didn’t matter. Paul carried a complicated past with him... loss, mistakes, persecution, and people he loved who were gone. “Forgetting what is behind” was not about erasing those things. It was about refusing to let them anchor him in place.
Grief, love, and memory travel with us. They become part of who we are. But they do not have to stop us from continuing the journey.
Faith, like life, keeps moving forward.
And sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is carry the love of the people we’ve lost and keep living the life they hoped we would have.
Take care of yourselves.
Take care of each other. 💛
Some lessons apparently need to be repeated over and over again because people either refuse to learn them or keep pretending they didn’t hear them the first time. You know the saying that doing the same thing over and over again while expecting a different result is the definition of insanity? I’m starting to believe that might actually be the unofficial motto of my job at Circle K.
At the gas station on 4th St SE, we currently only have 87 and 91 gas available. One of the underground tanks is broken. Fixing it would require digging up a huge section of the station, which means it’s not a quick and easy fix. So for the time being, that particular button on the pump simply does not work.
There are signs everywhere explaining this.
Stickers on the pump.
Labels on the button.
Big bold words that say OUT OF ORDER.
And yet people still press it.
Every single day.
Then they come inside and tell us the pump is broken. "Yes, sir/ma'am that has been broken for six months." For a long time, I would politely explain the situation. “That button doesn’t work right now. Just hit the other one.” Most people would nod and go back outside. Some people would insist the machine must be malfunctioning. Occasionally, someone would suggest we should “get that fixed,” as if we had not already noticed the giant underground fuel tank problem.
Recently, I decided to try something different. Now I simply say, “You hit the wrong button. I reset it. Go back out and hit the correct one. The one I told you to hit the first time.” Then they slowly walk away, looking like a child who just got caught doing something they absolutely knew they weren’t supposed to do.
And honestly, a large part of my job is trying to understand how some grown adults have survived this long.
But the more I think about it, the more I realize this isn’t just a gas station problem.
This is a human problem.
The instructions are clear.
The signs are visible.
The outcome is predictable.
And we still push the wrong button.
Then when nothing works, we look for someone else to blame.
The traditional scripture reading at the beginning of Lent comes from Matthew 4:1–11, the story of Jesus being tempted in the wilderness. After forty days of fasting and isolation, when He is physically exhausted and vulnerable, the devil dude shows up with what honestly sounds like a pretty reasonable offer.
He tells Jesus to turn stones into bread and prove His power.
Then He challenges Him to throw Himself from the temple so God will rescue Him in dramatic fashion.
Finally, He offers Him political power over the entire world.
Each temptation is essentially the same offer wrapped in different packaging: take the shortcut. Prove yourself. Take control. Accept power without sacrifice. In other words, press the easy button.
And if we’re being honest, most people would probably take that deal.
You’re wandering around in the wilderness, hungry and exhausted, trying to prove your faith and resilience, and some devil-looking guy shows up and says, “Hey Jesus, bro, if you just do these things your life will be a lot easier.”
Most people would say, “Oh hell yes. Where do I sign up?”
Because who doesn’t want an easier life?
Wandering around in the wilderness trying to prove something about faith and purpose sounds… exhausting. At some point you’d start asking yourself, Wait, why am I doing this again?
But Jesus refuses every single time.
Not because the temptation isn’t real. Hunger is real. Doubt is real. The desire for security and power is very real. But He recognizes something deeper about the offer being made to Him. Each temptation requires Him to compromise the very thing He came to do. The easy path would lead to the wrong outcome. So He doesn’t press the button. And when I really think about that story, I can’t help but see pieces of my own life in it.
Sometimes it feels like all I’ve ever done is wander around in the wilderness, fighting for justice, equity, acceptance, and basic human dignity.
And the whole time people keep asking me the same question.
“Why are you doing this, Vangie? You’re making your life harder than it needs to be. You could do something easier. Make more money. Stop worrying so much about other people.”
In other words, they’re telling me to press the easy button.
But something deep inside me has never allowed that.
Because that’s not who I am.
And it’s not what I’m here to do.
The hard truth is that sometimes the road has been uphill both ways. But the reason people choose the harder path isn’t because they enjoy suffering. It’s because they believe that if they keep pushing forward, the road might become a little smoother for the people who come after them.
So young LGBTQ+ people don’t have to hide who they are.
So they don’t grow up feeling ashamed, unseen, or alone the way many of us did.
In a lot of cultures, especially BIPOC cultures, there’s an understanding that when someone makes it through struggle, they reach back and help the next generation climb out, too.
My ancestors did that. They struggled so their children could have something better.
And when I think about Jesus in the wilderness, refusing the easy path that would have made His life simpler, it feels like the same principle. He wanted his people to have an easier life.
Sometimes the reason someone chooses the harder road is because they believe it might lead to freedom for someone else.
And if you ask the question:
If not me, then who?
If not now, then when?
Well… that sounds a lot like the wilderness too.
Lenten Reflection
Matthew 4:1–11 | Resisting Oppression in the Wilderness
The traditional Lenten reading from Matthew 4:1–11 tells the story of Jesus being tempted in the wilderness. After forty days of fasting, isolation, and vulnerability, the devil appears and begins testing Him.
But these temptations aren’t just about hunger or power. They’re about manipulation.
Each one tries to push Jesus to prove something about Himself, to compromise His mission, or to trade truth for power.
The first temptation is the demand to prove His worth.
“If you are the Son of God, tell these stones to become bread.”
That line should sound familiar to a lot of marginalized people. Trans and queer people are constantly asked to justify their existence, to prove that they are “respectable enough,” “palatable enough,” or “good enough” to deserve basic dignity. Jesus refuses that game. He does not perform His identity for the approval of others.
The second temptation is about conditional acceptance.
“Throw yourself down,” the devil says, suggesting that God will rescue Him if He proves His faith dramatically enough.
This is the same logic many LGBTQ+ people hear from religious institutions: we will accept you, but only if you suppress who you are. Only if you conform to our expectations. Jesus rejects that idea entirely. Faith is not about proving yourself to systems that demand your erasure.
The final temptation is about power.
“All this I will give you,” the devil says, “if you bow down and worship me.”
This is the oldest temptation there is: trade truth for comfort. Accept power if it means compromising your values. Politicians and religious leaders still use this tactic today, dividing marginalized communities and offering security to some if they abandon others.
But Jesus refuses again.
Justice that requires someone else’s oppression is not justice.
Liberation that leaves others behind is not liberation.
The wilderness story reminds us that resisting these temptations is part of the spiritual journey.
For LGBTQ+ people, that resistance can look like refusing to justify our humanity, standing firm in our identities, and continuing to advocate for those who are still being pushed to the margins.
For allies, it means refusing apathy. Speaking up when harmful theology is used as a weapon. Making sure our communities are places where dignity and belonging are real, not conditional.
Lent is not just about giving something up for forty days. It is about transformation.
It is about choosing truth when compromise would be easier.
It is about rejecting the systems that demand our silence.
The story of the wilderness is not just an ancient text. It is a reminder that every generation must decide whether it will take the easy path or stand firm in the pursuit of justice.
Jesus came out of the wilderness stronger.
So will we.
This Lent, let us choose resistance, renewal, and justice.
As above. So below. Amen.
Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other. 💛
Today was the first day I got to golf outside again at Willow Creek with my friend Tamsen, and it was glorious.
When you live somewhere like Minnesota, you forget that the places that bring you peace are real places. For six months, they might as well not exist. You hibernate indoors all winter and then suddenly one day you're back outside, walking fairways again, wondering why on earth you live somewhere you can only golf half the year.
It felt good to be outside. Even if the grass is still mostly dead and brown. And the fairways were wet and muddy. And the greens made putting challenging. More than usual.
Nine holes. Fresh air. Talking about golf and life with someone I’ve been playing with for years.
It reminded me how much I love my golf league women.
The camaraderie.
The encouragement.
The way we celebrate each other when someone hits a good shot.
Sometimes that celebration also includes adult beverages like White Claws. Which honestly feels very on brand for women’s golf.
And it made me think about something.
International Women’s Day is supposed to be about celebrating women.
All women.
Even the ones you don’t particularly like.
Because if we’re being honest, women can sometimes be… complicated with each other.
Competition.
Jealousy.
Envy.
Those things creep into female friendships when people feel like they’re competing for the same space, the same opportunities, or the same person’s attention.
Growing up, I never really understood women competing for the male gaze. Mostly because I never thought I qualified for it.
I didn’t look like the girls on magazine covers when I was growing up. So the message I internalized early on was that I probably wasn’t pretty enough to be wanted by men. Then I came out and realized I didn’t want to be wanted by men.
Which, ironically, turned out to be a strange kind of Freedom. Because if you grow up believing you don’t need that validation, eventually you stop chasing it.
And once you stop chasing it, you also stop competing with other women for it. This reminded me of something from when I first came out.
When I came out in high school, most of my friends were gay men. I had a whole feral pack of them. Wonderful humans. Great for emotional support. Slightly less helpful if you're a baby lesbian trying to meet women.
Most of my straight women friends were busy talking about their boyfriends. Which again, great for them, but not exactly advancing my sapphic agenda.
So like everything else in my life, I approached the problem like an assignment.
“Okay Vangie. If you want more lesbian friends… you should probably go where the lesbians are.”
At the time I had exactly one lesbian friend, and she had already graduated and joined the Army. So I was basically on my own.
For a while I spent more time in gay men's bars getting hit on by men who thought I was a hot young gay guy than actually meeting women to date.
Eventually I figured out the obvious solution and joined a women's softball league sponsored by the microbrewery where I worked.
That league was full of older lesbians. Most of them were in their thirties, which when you're twenty-three feels ancient.
Turns out older lesbians are excellent teachers. Not in that way. I was in a relationship by then.
Back then the culture was very butch/femme. That was the framework we had in the 90s. We were all figuring out how to build a community that didn’t have many visible examples yet. At the time I was considered a soft sporty butch. Think chivalry, but with better communication skills.
The dynamic was simple. Butches were friends with other butches. We dated femmes. Of course there were exceptions, but the structure was pretty recognizable.
In a weird way it functioned like the dude-bro friendships we saw growing up… except we were women, so we actually talked about our feelings. Which meant those friendships were often deeper than people expected. Looking back now, I learned a lot from those women.
How to show up for people.
How to be supportive.
How to treat the women you date with care and respect.
Honestly, if men want to know how to date women, they should stop listening to those ridiculous red-pill podcast bros and spend a few hours talking to older masc lesbians. Masculinity does not have to be toxic.
We’ve been doing the princess treatment as the bare minimum for decades. Trust me. We have the data. We're adult women who date other adult women. It’s not rocket science.
Which brings me to someone I dated about twenty years ago.
Looking back now, that relationship might have been the closest thing to an idyllic partnership I’ve ever experienced, or would ever want.
If I imagine the version of love that would probably fit me best in life, it would look a lot like what I had with her.
She was a beautiful person inside and out. Funny, kind, and wonderful. She loved me when I was broken and had nothing.
And I didn’t think I deserved it. Or deserved her.
And honestly… I was kind of a jackass.
But timing matters.
And the version of me who met her wasn’t the version of me that exists today.
At that time I was still climbing out of a very toxic relationship. The one with the woman who broke up with me every month. Her ghost haunted me for a long time. I was hurt, confused, and honestly not very emotionally healthy or vulnerable. I guess in today’s language you’d call me... avoidant.
She wanted to be girlfriends. And I remember telling her I needed to think about it. When I finally came back and said yes, she said no. Her exact words were basically, “If you had to think about it, then you probably aren’t ready to be committed to me. Or anyone, Vangie. I can't keep falling in love with your potential.”
She was right.
And I get it. If it's not a clear hell yes, then you don't want it.
Twenty-eight-year-old Vangie was not ready.
Sometimes the right people show up in our lives, but you are the wrong person for them.
And sometimes the lesson isn’t about getting the person back.
Sometimes the lesson is simply recognizing the gift they were when they appeared.
And I cherish that I had the opportunity to love her. That someone like her exists. Because it reminds me that love like that is possible.
And maybe one day the right person for me will show up, and I will be the right person for her. And the time will be right for the both of us.
Lent is a season where we’re supposed to take honest inventory of our lives.
Not with shame.
Just honesty.
And if I’m being honest, I’ve been very lucky to have known some extraordinary women in my life.
Friends.
Partners.
Golf league teammates.
Mentors.
Women who supported me.
Women who challenged me.
Women who showed me what love and friendship could look like in different seasons of life.
So today, on International Women’s Day, I’m choosing to celebrate all of them.
The ones who stayed.
The ones who left.
And even the ones who taught me the uncomfortable and hard truths.
Because every one of them helped shape the person I eventually became.
And honestly, that’s worth celebrating.
Lenten Reflection
"My beloved spoke and said to me, 'Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, come with me. See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone.'" ― Song of Solomon 2:10–11
The Song of Solomon reminds us that love is one of the great gifts of being human.
Not just romantic love, but the kind of love that shows up through friendships, mentors, partners, and the communities that shape us.
Sometimes those people arrive in our lives when we are ready.
Sometimes they arrive when we are still broken, confused, or learning who we are.
And sometimes the season simply isn’t right yet.
But that doesn’t make the love any less real.
Lent asks us to take honest inventory of our lives. Not just the mistakes we made, but the grace we were given through the people who walked beside us for a time.
The Song of Solomon says, “See, the winter is past.”
Sometimes the gift of love is simply remembering that winter never lasts forever.
Take care of yourself.
Take care of each other.
