Brrrrr……it’s a little chilly this morning! Fortunately, I am lucky enough to have the luxury of parking my beautiful red Nissan Versa, Nora, in my garage at night. Truly her mother’s daughter, she doesn’t like the cold much and can be pretty cranky in the morning if she is stuck outside where it isn’t warm enough for her to get a good night’s sleep. As a mother who cares so deeply about her children, I always do my best to ensure that Nora always has a warm bed. But while it is difficult for me to admit, I must divulge that my motives for keeping Nora warm are more than slightly narcissistic. After all, when morning comes and my cold, tired hand swiftly turns the bronze doorknob granting me access to Nora’s lair, I am noticeably excited that I am able to sit in her seat without shivering so much that my knees knock together and it becomes unsafe for me to drive her. (You may think I am exaggerating, but I’m sure my husband would be delighted to tell you about the small, bony icicles that slowly creep over to his side of the bed every night- despite the sweatpants, sweatshirt, and electric blanket that encompass them).
Fortunately, in spite of myself and my utter distaste for any temperature readings below 75…and thanks to my wonderful, too-often-neglected garage, I was able to coax myself out of bed, into the garage, and out with Nora this morning. We made our first stop shortly thereafter, and picked up a friend on the way to work. A few of us had decided to meet early to pray together this morning and, lucky for Nora, I was unmistakably looking forward to it! Most mornings, Nora has the privilege of hearing me complain about the busyness of my life or, if she’s lucky, I will simply sit in silence as my annoyingly heavy eyelids fight to stay open. This morning however, my demeanor reflected a slightly different aura.
You see…have you ever seen a hamster run inside one of those wheel things? You know, where they just go around and around and around and….around? Well, I am joyous to disclose to you that I have been granted the opportunity to observe such a magnanimous feat many times. In fact, I feel like there must be a tiny hamster in my brain right now- just running, and running, and running in circles. (I know it’s crazy, but he’s in there! And because he and I have spent so much time together lately, I have elected to give him a name. Rico). Since his arrival, Rico hasn’t ceased to demand my attention. If I begin to turn my back on him, or contemplate purchasing other hamsters to join him, he just runs faster and harder. He was running so fast this morning that I decided it was time to introduce him to my friends. And you see, when I finally decide to share Rico, he doesn’t come out looking all cute and fuzzy and hamster-esque. Nope. In fact he doesn’t look like anything. Rather, he sounds like a jumbled-mess of what? that can sort of be summed up as: “What would it look like to switch burdens with Jesus?”
You see I can’t help but giggle at myself a little bit. A chuckle maybe. Ok….maybe a full out, belly busting laugh! I mean, not only have I started naming the “hamsters” that are running through my mind, but I have also allowed myself to live a bit of irony as of late. Exactly two weeks ago, I stumbled upon the thought that maybe I didn’t quite understand what Jesus meant when He asked us to “learn the unforced rhythms of grace” in Matthew chapter 11. I asserted that maybe the backpack full of crap that I have been carrying is far too “heavy and ill-fitting” to be what the Lord has intended, and I decided to embark on a new leg of my journey in order to discover these “unforced rhythms of grace” that Jesus talks about.
No sooner had I typed these words, then I had decided to pick up more and more and more pebbles and toss them into my backpack. It was almost as if some unconscious voice (I imagine it as a deep, scratchy, old grandma voice- almost like the wicked step-mother in Cinderella) inside of me was telling me- “Megan! Megan!!!! Listen to me you fool! Your backpack is EMPTY, you little light-walking, free-living snot! Where do you get off thinking that you are so special? So special that you can just carry around an empty backpack while our backs are bending under the weight of these rocks?! What in the cottage cheese are you thinking?? Get your relaxed muscles back to work! NOW!” And just like my dog Riley when he feels like he is in trouble, I immediately obeyed. I elected to leave behind the green pastures and quiet waters that David talks about in Psalm 23, and trudge out to the desert to pick up more boulders. More pressures. More burdens.
Let me say that again. I decided to put one foot in front of the other and trudge out to the hot, dry, dreary desert…and pick up pebble upon pebble, some of which I am sure were no more than petrified pieces of dog crap. I did it. It was me. This morning, I was reminded by a friend that my backpack of crap doesn’t fill itself. (As I’m sure you have witnessed, crap can’t jump!) For something to end up in my backpack, I have to make the choice to put it there. This is a new concept for me. For as long as I can remember, I have had this vision of Jesus standing above me with a slingshot full of rocks, big rocks- aiming ever so carefully to make the seemingly impossible shot into my backpack thousands of miles below. (But of course, because He’s Jesus, He makes it every time). Surely He must have undergone years of stealthy sniper training to be able to hit my backpack with such wondrous precision. But as I sit here this morning, I realize that my fantastical image of a camo-wearing, sling-shot ripping Jesus could not be farther from the truth! Why? Call me crazy, but I guess I would have to say because He said so. He said, right there in Matthew chapter 11, that He would not lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on me. Well, there’s just one problem- this backpack has gotten so heavy and so ill-fitting that I can hardly stand it! My back and shoulders ache from the pressure, and at this rate, I am sure to be the new hunchback of Notre Dame before I reach my 30th birthday. How then, if Jesus said He wouldn’t lay any such thing on me…and the thing I am carrying couldn’t be heavier, could this backpack of crap be from Jesus?
So as I sit here, paper clip hanging out of the side of my mouth, knees shaking back and forth nervously, listening to the sound of a new floor being installed in my office…I wonder…what would it be like to switch backpacks with Jesus? What if I finally elected to give my worry-ridden shoulders a rest? For good? There is something inside of me that tells me this is possible. That rather than looking down from above aiming to hit my backpack with rocks, Jesus is standing right beside me, offering me a bag that is empty in exchange for my old backpack that has recently started to rip because of it’s continued use. And if this is true, if there is really a place where I can meet and switch bags with Jesus- I’m in! I both invite you to join my on this journey…and warn you that it may get a little messy. But what the heck...
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Game face and Riley and Saline and Stuff
As I drove home from class yesterday, after taking a midterm that successfully annihilated any possibility of me operating at full capacity for the remainder of the afternoon, I had one thing on my mind: Game Face. Yesterday marked the day of the year that I dread more than any other. The day for which I have specifically created a small compartment inside my brain labeled “Megan’s Optimistic willpower and Strength- Do not open until March 2nd.” I have been working on filling this compartment all year, knowing full well that my need for such optimistic willpower and strength will far outweigh any of my preconceived ideas of what the day may hold.
As I pulled into my garage, my mission was clear- gather all necessary items for game day, put on my uniform, and hit the road. It was go time. Well, at least until I remembered that I had to drop off some pictures at Wal-Mart, which was an obvious necessity. For the past few months, my husband and I have spent countless hours ensuring the complete overhaul of our living room- and I mean complete. Naturally, placing new and updated photos in our picture frames was to be the much-anticipated final step of this overhaul, which I simply could not wait another day for. So, Wal-Mart it was!
Sitting in front of the Fuji machine in Wal-Mart’s newly improved photo department, my mind was momentarily able to escape the certain chaos that awaited me. I finished ordering my pictures, all the while remaining painstakingly conscious of the time. I pulled my memory stick from the machine and quickly slipped it back into my purse. Knowing I didn’t want to be late, I quickly grabbed a cheap ink cartridge for our crazy-thirsty printer….found the shortest check-out line, and bolted out the door.
Back behind the wheel of my car, my mind returned to the inevitable fate that awaited me. I drove home to meet my husband and grabbed a few more necessary items before the two of us jumped back in the car. Necessary items? Check. Game face? Check. Teammate? Check. It was go time. The day was finally here, and it was time for the contents of my special compartment to be utilized. It was…my friends…tax day.
Tax day for me is like making the decision to get my dog neutered. It’s horrible. I look at Riley and realize that he has no idea what he is about to endure…yet it is inevitable. The day is fast approaching when he will be lured into a seemingly luxurious room with treats and friends and nice people wearing white coats…only to find that they are out to take something from him. Something that has become an integral part of his daily existence. Something, that makes him who he is. I feel like Riley on tax day. Like I am being lured into a nicely decorated room with well-meaning professionals whose teeth are too white to be real and who offer me candy and little trinkets for my time- like neon colored plastic cups for example. I LOVE neon colored plastic cups! They know how to lure me in. But then…before I have the chance to finish my 51st Werther’s Original…they tell me what I’m really there for. And as I sign my life away at the bottom of the page, suddenly my plastic neon cups just don’t seem worth it anymore. Yes, I loathe tax day. Fortunately, unlike Riley, I am able to take the next few months to rebuild my loss. Before I know it, I will be the same Megan Taylor I was on March 1st…pre tax day. Riley…my poor baby… isn’t so lucky.
But as I sit here today, typing out my tax day dance for the world to see, something inside of me is telling me that I sound more than a bit ridiculous. Not just because of my exaggerated use of adjectives or my lofty use of metaphor (comparing my predicament to my dog losing his manhood may not have been the most logical choice), but simply because I have actually chosen to denote a significant portion of this afternoon’s brain power to telling you about my experience. Because the fact that I have done so tells me much more about myself than I believe I am prepared to hear.
I have heard it said, “You can tell what is most important to a man by observing what he allocates his money…and most importantly, his time…to.” Hmm. And I have just spent more than a useful amount of time typing out a retrospectively trivial experience of mine. But I think what bothers me most is not that I took a break from work for a moment to divulge my complete and utter dislike of the American tax system, but that I have allowed tax day to hold a significant enough place in my life that I found it necessary to tell you about it. Because if I am being honest, I must admit that I am more like Riley than I would care to concede. Because when my accountant flashes her fake white teeth and highlights the always-larger-than-expected number at the bottom of my tax return…my stomach drops, my face heats up, and my eyes literally fill up with some type of saline-liquid. (Some would call it tears, but I’m just not ready to admit that quite yet.) Because just like the nice man in the white coat has taken something from Riley…something that made him who he is…something has been taken from me. Something (imagine me saying this through clenched teeth- because that is what it feels like), that has made me who I am.
And I hate that. I hate that they have taken it from me, yes. But more than that, I hate that I hate that they have taken it from me. I hate that I have failed at keeping my purpose true, and that I have succumbed to the American dream. The fact that signing the bottom of my tax return made my eyes liquidy produces the same effect now as I realize what that means. As I realize where my heart is. As I realize what my priorities are.
I say that I want my life to be about hope…but is it? To be about CHANGE (not pennies and nickels and dimes) but real and lasting change…but is it? And most importantly…I say that I want my life to be about love…but is it? Or is it about some deranged depiction of love that is so far removed from my purpose? Am I simply hiding behind my designer jeans and busy schedule…annoyed at the handicapped homeless man who can’t cross the street quick enough? Am I? I believe that I am. And forcing my fingers to type out those words brings forth the saline liquid once again. I believe that I am. And so, world, as I send my scattered and saline-infused thoughts out to you I ask…what can I do to change this? What can I do to remember my purpose and to return my focus to love? Because I don’t want to be annoyed at the homeless man anymore. I don’t want to spend an entire year filling up my special compartment for tax day. And most of all, I want to remember that there really is more to my tiny little life than I think.
As I pulled into my garage, my mission was clear- gather all necessary items for game day, put on my uniform, and hit the road. It was go time. Well, at least until I remembered that I had to drop off some pictures at Wal-Mart, which was an obvious necessity. For the past few months, my husband and I have spent countless hours ensuring the complete overhaul of our living room- and I mean complete. Naturally, placing new and updated photos in our picture frames was to be the much-anticipated final step of this overhaul, which I simply could not wait another day for. So, Wal-Mart it was!
Sitting in front of the Fuji machine in Wal-Mart’s newly improved photo department, my mind was momentarily able to escape the certain chaos that awaited me. I finished ordering my pictures, all the while remaining painstakingly conscious of the time. I pulled my memory stick from the machine and quickly slipped it back into my purse. Knowing I didn’t want to be late, I quickly grabbed a cheap ink cartridge for our crazy-thirsty printer….found the shortest check-out line, and bolted out the door.
Back behind the wheel of my car, my mind returned to the inevitable fate that awaited me. I drove home to meet my husband and grabbed a few more necessary items before the two of us jumped back in the car. Necessary items? Check. Game face? Check. Teammate? Check. It was go time. The day was finally here, and it was time for the contents of my special compartment to be utilized. It was…my friends…tax day.
Tax day for me is like making the decision to get my dog neutered. It’s horrible. I look at Riley and realize that he has no idea what he is about to endure…yet it is inevitable. The day is fast approaching when he will be lured into a seemingly luxurious room with treats and friends and nice people wearing white coats…only to find that they are out to take something from him. Something that has become an integral part of his daily existence. Something, that makes him who he is. I feel like Riley on tax day. Like I am being lured into a nicely decorated room with well-meaning professionals whose teeth are too white to be real and who offer me candy and little trinkets for my time- like neon colored plastic cups for example. I LOVE neon colored plastic cups! They know how to lure me in. But then…before I have the chance to finish my 51st Werther’s Original…they tell me what I’m really there for. And as I sign my life away at the bottom of the page, suddenly my plastic neon cups just don’t seem worth it anymore. Yes, I loathe tax day. Fortunately, unlike Riley, I am able to take the next few months to rebuild my loss. Before I know it, I will be the same Megan Taylor I was on March 1st…pre tax day. Riley…my poor baby… isn’t so lucky.
But as I sit here today, typing out my tax day dance for the world to see, something inside of me is telling me that I sound more than a bit ridiculous. Not just because of my exaggerated use of adjectives or my lofty use of metaphor (comparing my predicament to my dog losing his manhood may not have been the most logical choice), but simply because I have actually chosen to denote a significant portion of this afternoon’s brain power to telling you about my experience. Because the fact that I have done so tells me much more about myself than I believe I am prepared to hear.
I have heard it said, “You can tell what is most important to a man by observing what he allocates his money…and most importantly, his time…to.” Hmm. And I have just spent more than a useful amount of time typing out a retrospectively trivial experience of mine. But I think what bothers me most is not that I took a break from work for a moment to divulge my complete and utter dislike of the American tax system, but that I have allowed tax day to hold a significant enough place in my life that I found it necessary to tell you about it. Because if I am being honest, I must admit that I am more like Riley than I would care to concede. Because when my accountant flashes her fake white teeth and highlights the always-larger-than-expected number at the bottom of my tax return…my stomach drops, my face heats up, and my eyes literally fill up with some type of saline-liquid. (Some would call it tears, but I’m just not ready to admit that quite yet.) Because just like the nice man in the white coat has taken something from Riley…something that made him who he is…something has been taken from me. Something (imagine me saying this through clenched teeth- because that is what it feels like), that has made me who I am.
And I hate that. I hate that they have taken it from me, yes. But more than that, I hate that I hate that they have taken it from me. I hate that I have failed at keeping my purpose true, and that I have succumbed to the American dream. The fact that signing the bottom of my tax return made my eyes liquidy produces the same effect now as I realize what that means. As I realize where my heart is. As I realize what my priorities are.
I say that I want my life to be about hope…but is it? To be about CHANGE (not pennies and nickels and dimes) but real and lasting change…but is it? And most importantly…I say that I want my life to be about love…but is it? Or is it about some deranged depiction of love that is so far removed from my purpose? Am I simply hiding behind my designer jeans and busy schedule…annoyed at the handicapped homeless man who can’t cross the street quick enough? Am I? I believe that I am. And forcing my fingers to type out those words brings forth the saline liquid once again. I believe that I am. And so, world, as I send my scattered and saline-infused thoughts out to you I ask…what can I do to change this? What can I do to remember my purpose and to return my focus to love? Because I don’t want to be annoyed at the homeless man anymore. I don’t want to spend an entire year filling up my special compartment for tax day. And most of all, I want to remember that there really is more to my tiny little life than I think.
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