A friend once told me not to fear and not to avoid the time behind the curtain. If you're like me, you're probably now picturing the draperies hanging from a rod secured above your bedroom window--white, sheer, and flowy perhaps. Or maybe a fab deco pattern in fantastic colors designed to help your decor 'pop'. Regardless, if you're like me, you're wondering--what curtain is this person talking about? And why in the world should I fear the array of fabric that lies suspended above my windows? I didn't get it. In fact I'm still figuring it out. But one thing I do believe... that my friend was not referring to the outdated fabric hanging from my unsightly curtain rods. Nope. This curtain is much, much bigger.
I have never been much of one for theatre performances, although I think my apathetic stance towards them is more highly correlated with my lack of opportunity to experience them rather than actual distaste. Nonetheless, theatre is not something I have been overly excited about. With one exception.
I don't remember the name of the performance my high school arts class attended that day, but I remember the details. The intriguing plot that centered around the mystery of a small-town murder. The intricate costumes that supported the character development beautifully. The seat that became my personal teleportation device into another time and place as I became enthralled with every nuance of the story I had been invited into. The curtain. I remember the curtain well. It was thick, velvety, and a deep shade of red. And it was mysterious. I can't remember how many times during that sub 3-hour theatre performance the curtain was lowered and raised. But one thing I do remember--that every time the curtain was lifted after a brief few minutes of silence (that seemed like hours to one so intrigued with the story) something was different. Sometimes items in the set had been removed or moved around. Sometimes the setting had changed completely- from an outdoor country farm to an indoor city saloon. And sometimes...new characters were introduced. Each raise of the curtain was different, but each revealed the same truth--that during those few brief moments of silence and "curtain down time", there was radical work going on behind the scenes to prepare the performance to continue. Yes--regardless of my impatient desire for the show to go on immediately, the "time behind the curtain" was necessary for the story to continue as it was written.
Boom. Light Bulb. Fireworks. Explosion inside my brain! "Do not fear and do not avoid the time behind the curtain." The older I get and the more I experience, the more I come to understand that life is a journey. It can't be summarized with a word, nor can it be confined to a specific path. But life, I have come to learn, is much like the murder-mystery theatre performance that intrigued me in high school. It has been written for us. There are plots and scenes and characters...there are "pivotal moments" and seemingly mundane interactions. Even makeup and costumes make their appearances as we strive to "fit the part" that we believe we should be playing. And....there is a curtain. A big one. One that sometimes comes down when we least expect it--when we feel like the story is plodding along quite nicely, or when we are "left hanging"--waiting to learn an outcome.
Just as any theatre performance is written in a certain manner to include scenes and acts and even curtain raises at the appropriate times, God is the author of our stories... and thus has written into our stories the times the curtain lowers and raises! If you're like me, the times of a "lowered curtain" can be frustrating. These are the times in life when we feel like our story is on hold. When we feel like we are simply waiting- just waiting for the curtain to raise so that we can see how the performance will continue. Little do we know that these times are so necessary...that it is during these times when our curtain is lowered that the Lord may be making radical changes in us--changes in scenery, changes in setting, changes in character--without which, the rest of the story could not take place!
Friends, God has recently given me a new perspective for the time I have spent behind the curtain. I have fought to keep my curtain raised. I have kicked, screamed, and done my darndest to keep it raised. There are times when maybe I have even succeeded at raising it a few inches- only to reveal a disorganized mess that wasn't able to support the next scene. So thankfully, God strapped my arms to my side in ways that I didn't expect so that I was unable to lift my curtain any further. And as I have sat backstage with Him and have watched him re-set the stage and orchestrate the next scenes in my life...I could not be more grateful! There have been settings removed that I thought I loved. Characters removed from my story that I thought were pivotal. And radical costume changes. But what is slowly beginning to emerge is so much more beautiful than the previous set...and in ways I couldn't imagine!
I can only imagine that some who may read this may feel their curtain closing. Or maybe you are behind a closed curtain- fighting against and simply waiting in frustration for it to re-open. This may look a thousand different ways--a season of rest where you feel you have been called to step back from things you love, and you don't know why. An illness that is keeping you from progressing as you would like. A time of hurt, pain, and frustration- when nothing seems to be going right. Job loss. Relocation. A rebellious heart. A curtain closing is never easy. But I promise you, friend, that the work going on behind the curtain is worth it. It is beautiful, it is intricate, and it is worth it! And it will allow your story to move forward in ways you never thought possible. So, my friend, do not fear or avoid the time behind the curtain! Rejoice in knowing that the changes that are taking place are more than you can imagine...God is good, and He is faithful to complete what He has started in you! (Phil 1:6).
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Monday, February 28, 2011
The Great Unpack: 1- A Vulnerable People
Weekends can mean a lot of things for me. Although the proportions vary, my weekend staples usually consist of food, sleep, friends, relaxation, church, and an array of other activities as long as they don't utilize too much brain power. Needless to say, this weekend was different. Although a few of the usual weekend staples made an appearance, a few more were thrown in the mix- challenging conversations, heart-checks, and mind-blowing insights to name a few. I was blessed to spend this weekend at The Idea Camp- a collaborative, honest conversation about orphan care, God's heart for it, and the role we have been asked to play in the process. I showed up to the conversation not knowing what to expect, and left with a (figurative) suitcase full of exceeded expectations and gargantuan contemplations to unpack.
I wish I could implant a chip into your brain containing every detail of my weekend adventure, because my words simply cannot paint a vibrant enough picture to explicate what I have experienced and am still experiencing. But because words are what I have (and sometimes I have way too many), I am going to grab the zipper, flip open the lid, and slowly begin the great unpack...
Vulnerability. Even just typing the word increases my heartbeat just a little bit. In fact, I am going to be vulnerable right now and tell you that I generally dislike being vulnerable. In Christian circles, it seems that to be 'vulnerable' has become synonymous with sharing one's deepest heartaches and struggles with another. In this scenario, the one who shares such things would be delineated as the one practicing vulnerability. But what about his friend, the listener? Must he too be vulnerable to enter into such a conversation? Maybe, maybe not. Our first speaker at The Idea Camp, Tom Davis, wasn't reluctant to share his musings on the topic. And as I sat in my seat wrestling with the anxious heart within me at the thought of bearing my soul to the others in the room, I realized something. (Which, of course, inevitably led to a few other somethings.)
Something #1: Vulnerability is ultimately about pain. To be vulnerable is defined as "being capable of being physically or emotionally wounded or hurt." Wow. No wonder we don't like vulnerability. In the scenario mentioned above where one vulnerable friend shares his heartache and struggles with another, I believe the 'listening' friend, the one on the 'helping' side of the conversation, has a choice. 1- He can choose to match his friend's level of vulnerability and so choose to enter into the pain of his comrade and risk physical or emotional wounding... or, 2- he can choose to remain guarded- protected and safe in isolation.
Something #2: When we find ourselves on the 'helping' side of the conversation, we should always choose option #1 mentioned above. Why? Because when we feel pain, we respond. This is an undeniable reality...a natural reaction to an uncomfortable catalyst. When we have a headache, we take Advil. When we sprain an ankle, we ice it. When we break a bone, we cast it. On the other hand, if my sister breaks her wrist, am I likely to respond to her pain by going to the doctor with her to get my wrist casted as well? Probably not, because I have not felt pain enough to necessitate a response. In the same way, I am unlikely to respond to a friend's heartache unless I feel it too. But this is exactly what vulnerability invites us to do. Through vulnerability, we have the opportunity to allow ourselves the capability of experiencing the pain of another, thereby making their pain, our pain. If we choose vulnerability and allow ourselves the capability of being wounded or hurt...if we choose to make the pain of another our own, then we will be moved to action. It would then become impossible for us to remain inactive and continue to writhe in our pain. In the case of orphan care (as well as others), we must choose to be vulnerable. We must choose to allow ourselves to step into the stories of the 143 million orphan children across the world...for it is when we enter into their stories and experience their heartache first-hand that we cannot help but be moved to action.
Something #3: In order for us to get to the point where we are willing to make the decision to enter into the pain of others, we must become vulnerable to Scripture. Why? Because our human nature is to avoid pain and seek comfort at all costs, thereby inherently reducing any desire for vulnerability. We must be willing to be moved. We must be willing to enter into the weight of Scripture and allow it to direct our paths. In the case of orphan care, we must understand our precious redemption and our own adoption as a child of God (1 John 3:1). We must learn about the heart of God and His incredible love for His children...and we must allow our hearts to become God's heart. When our hearts our aligned with His through vulnerability to Scripture, our hearts will begin to desire the rescue of His children as well. And when this is the desire of our hearts...and we know that pain precedes response...our desire will be to vulnerably enter into the lives of others.
So as I sit here tonight as a girl who often chooses safety and isolation, I am dumbfounded. I am dumbfounded, and I am excited. Excited to pursue a life of vulnerability and brokenness, desperation and hope. Excited to enter into the stories of others and to walk alongside them in this journey. Excited, because my God is big...and because He chose to become vulnerable and enter into my pain and brokenness, so that healing and redemption may follow. And that, my friends, is something to get excited about...
I wish I could implant a chip into your brain containing every detail of my weekend adventure, because my words simply cannot paint a vibrant enough picture to explicate what I have experienced and am still experiencing. But because words are what I have (and sometimes I have way too many), I am going to grab the zipper, flip open the lid, and slowly begin the great unpack...
Vulnerability. Even just typing the word increases my heartbeat just a little bit. In fact, I am going to be vulnerable right now and tell you that I generally dislike being vulnerable. In Christian circles, it seems that to be 'vulnerable' has become synonymous with sharing one's deepest heartaches and struggles with another. In this scenario, the one who shares such things would be delineated as the one practicing vulnerability. But what about his friend, the listener? Must he too be vulnerable to enter into such a conversation? Maybe, maybe not. Our first speaker at The Idea Camp, Tom Davis, wasn't reluctant to share his musings on the topic. And as I sat in my seat wrestling with the anxious heart within me at the thought of bearing my soul to the others in the room, I realized something. (Which, of course, inevitably led to a few other somethings.)
Something #1: Vulnerability is ultimately about pain. To be vulnerable is defined as "being capable of being physically or emotionally wounded or hurt." Wow. No wonder we don't like vulnerability. In the scenario mentioned above where one vulnerable friend shares his heartache and struggles with another, I believe the 'listening' friend, the one on the 'helping' side of the conversation, has a choice. 1- He can choose to match his friend's level of vulnerability and so choose to enter into the pain of his comrade and risk physical or emotional wounding... or, 2- he can choose to remain guarded- protected and safe in isolation.
Something #2: When we find ourselves on the 'helping' side of the conversation, we should always choose option #1 mentioned above. Why? Because when we feel pain, we respond. This is an undeniable reality...a natural reaction to an uncomfortable catalyst. When we have a headache, we take Advil. When we sprain an ankle, we ice it. When we break a bone, we cast it. On the other hand, if my sister breaks her wrist, am I likely to respond to her pain by going to the doctor with her to get my wrist casted as well? Probably not, because I have not felt pain enough to necessitate a response. In the same way, I am unlikely to respond to a friend's heartache unless I feel it too. But this is exactly what vulnerability invites us to do. Through vulnerability, we have the opportunity to allow ourselves the capability of experiencing the pain of another, thereby making their pain, our pain. If we choose vulnerability and allow ourselves the capability of being wounded or hurt...if we choose to make the pain of another our own, then we will be moved to action. It would then become impossible for us to remain inactive and continue to writhe in our pain. In the case of orphan care (as well as others), we must choose to be vulnerable. We must choose to allow ourselves to step into the stories of the 143 million orphan children across the world...for it is when we enter into their stories and experience their heartache first-hand that we cannot help but be moved to action.
Something #3: In order for us to get to the point where we are willing to make the decision to enter into the pain of others, we must become vulnerable to Scripture. Why? Because our human nature is to avoid pain and seek comfort at all costs, thereby inherently reducing any desire for vulnerability. We must be willing to be moved. We must be willing to enter into the weight of Scripture and allow it to direct our paths. In the case of orphan care, we must understand our precious redemption and our own adoption as a child of God (1 John 3:1). We must learn about the heart of God and His incredible love for His children...and we must allow our hearts to become God's heart. When our hearts our aligned with His through vulnerability to Scripture, our hearts will begin to desire the rescue of His children as well. And when this is the desire of our hearts...and we know that pain precedes response...our desire will be to vulnerably enter into the lives of others.
So as I sit here tonight as a girl who often chooses safety and isolation, I am dumbfounded. I am dumbfounded, and I am excited. Excited to pursue a life of vulnerability and brokenness, desperation and hope. Excited to enter into the stories of others and to walk alongside them in this journey. Excited, because my God is big...and because He chose to become vulnerable and enter into my pain and brokenness, so that healing and redemption may follow. And that, my friends, is something to get excited about...
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Name Check
Tonight I am fighting earnestly against the idea to change the name of my blog. Because tonight I realize that there isn't just maybe more to this than we think. There is no maybe about it. The "more" there is to this whole thing we call life is incredibly bigger, greater, and more magnificent than we could ever imagine. So much more than we think. In fact, I believe this "more" is actually the foundation, the baseline, and the purpose of all of this....and the life we now live, the "this" in which we are currently entrenched, is the extra part. And I feel like suddenly...out of nowhere and everywhere at the same time, all of this "more than we think" is jumping out from behind bushes and trees and flagpoles and is dancing in front of my face.
So what is this "more than we think"? I'm still figuring it out, but as I watch each dance closely I learn a little bit more. Tonight at church we talked about home. Not the brick and mortar structure that we currently inhabit and use as shelter, but our forever home with our forever Father- heaven. We talked about the actuality of heaven being a tangible place. The hope that comes from knowing that life extends beyond our physical life on earth- for us and for those we love who love Christ. And the joy of knowing that we can experience a small taste of home here on earth as we worship our Father in Heaven.
Tears filled my eyes as I thought of my friends who are currently worshipping in heaven...and as I expressed the pain and anxiety that currently consumes various corners of my heart. I can not wait to be home and for this pain and anxiety to be gone. Because one day this pain will be gone. All of my hurts, frustrations, and hang-ups will fade into the glory of Christ as I am united with Him in my forever home. And all of your hurts...frustrations...and hang-ups will fade into His glory too. This is hard to remember sometimes as so often I feel as though I am sinking in a giant pool of affliction, gasping for my last breath. But we should never lose hope.... 2 Corinthians 4:17-18 reminds us that the light and momentary troubles of today are achieving for us an eternal weight of glory far beyond all comparison. And so we must focus not on what is seen but on what is unseen- for what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. It is this "unseen", my friends, that I believe is a large part of the "more than we think." I'm still processing this. And I think there is much more to this "more than we think" than I know yet. Gospel and Community and Love and Mission are words that I cannot seem to dismiss from thought and that I can't help but believe must play a bigger role in my life. But tonight I am mostly thankful for home. And although I choose to cling to the truth that God isn't through with me yet here in my current, temporary home, I can't wait to get there. For all of us to get there. And be a part of this "more than we think."
So what is this "more than we think"? I'm still figuring it out, but as I watch each dance closely I learn a little bit more. Tonight at church we talked about home. Not the brick and mortar structure that we currently inhabit and use as shelter, but our forever home with our forever Father- heaven. We talked about the actuality of heaven being a tangible place. The hope that comes from knowing that life extends beyond our physical life on earth- for us and for those we love who love Christ. And the joy of knowing that we can experience a small taste of home here on earth as we worship our Father in Heaven.
Tears filled my eyes as I thought of my friends who are currently worshipping in heaven...and as I expressed the pain and anxiety that currently consumes various corners of my heart. I can not wait to be home and for this pain and anxiety to be gone. Because one day this pain will be gone. All of my hurts, frustrations, and hang-ups will fade into the glory of Christ as I am united with Him in my forever home. And all of your hurts...frustrations...and hang-ups will fade into His glory too. This is hard to remember sometimes as so often I feel as though I am sinking in a giant pool of affliction, gasping for my last breath. But we should never lose hope.... 2 Corinthians 4:17-18 reminds us that the light and momentary troubles of today are achieving for us an eternal weight of glory far beyond all comparison. And so we must focus not on what is seen but on what is unseen- for what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. It is this "unseen", my friends, that I believe is a large part of the "more than we think." I'm still processing this. And I think there is much more to this "more than we think" than I know yet. Gospel and Community and Love and Mission are words that I cannot seem to dismiss from thought and that I can't help but believe must play a bigger role in my life. But tonight I am mostly thankful for home. And although I choose to cling to the truth that God isn't through with me yet here in my current, temporary home, I can't wait to get there. For all of us to get there. And be a part of this "more than we think."
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Toothpaste Times
Yesterday I was reminded of an everyday magnificence. Toothpaste. It's incredible really. And while it often gets pushed to the bottom of the shopping list directly below deodorant and directly above toilet bowl cleaner, I believe there is much we can learn from such a seemingly insignificant item. (Insignificant except for the fact, of course, that it's role in keeping gingivitis and periodontal disease and even halitosis at bay is irreplaceable).
So let's talk toothpaste for a minute. It comes in a tube. Or some form of a semi-pliable box shaped container. Or a pump. It tastes like mint. Or cinnamon. Or fruit. Or some combination of the above. It is pasty. Or gel-like. Or something.....but what is the most significant attribute of toothpaste? What is inside the tube or semi-pliable box or pump is exactly what the label says-toothpaste. As I'm thinking about this, I'm wondering what it would be like if the toothpaste tycoons of the world united in a collaborative effort to baffle the world's toothpaste-consuming population. What if...instead of placing a minty, germ-annihilating paste inside their tubes, the toothpaste tycoons decided to utilize one of the world's most prevalent substances- thick, brown, wet, gooey mud. You know, just like you used to make mud pies with when you were a kid. What if....during your sleepy-eyed morning routine you pulled out your tube of toothpaste, flipped open the cap, gave it a good squeeze and....WHAT?????
Hmm. I wonder what that would be like? What if the most significant attribute of toothpaste- its consistency to be exactly what the label says it is- could no longer be trusted? Huh. Just wondering. Ok ok...there is more to my toothpaste deliberations than the mud-laden conspiracy of the toothpaste tycoons. The speculation that currently heckles my mind is this: Am I toothpaste?
While I wouldn't mind smelling like spearmint or possessing the ability to single-handedly eradicate the likelihood of gum disease, I'd like to dig a little deeper. My question is this: Do my insides match my outsides? Do my characteristics match my label? While unfortunately my label may change from time to time (which is another discussion altogether), the label I hope to wear would read as such:
Megan Taylor
Pursuing purpose and love...living as if Jesus is the point. Wife. Sister. Friend. Disciple. Lover of truth....
But when my cap is flipped open and I'm given a good squeeze...is this what comes out? Do I smell like mint? Or a landfill? Am I a smooth paste? Or a gritty mixture? Am I pursuing purpose and love with everything...counting all as rubbish for the sake of Christ- truly making Him the point? Hmm. Maybe sometimes. Maybe not. And most of the time, my insides probably look a lot like mint-chocolate chip ice cream...a little toothpaste mixed with a little mud. But as I sit here tonight with my tube of Colgate Total Whitening by my side I wonder...how can I make toothpaste my reality?
So let's talk toothpaste for a minute. It comes in a tube. Or some form of a semi-pliable box shaped container. Or a pump. It tastes like mint. Or cinnamon. Or fruit. Or some combination of the above. It is pasty. Or gel-like. Or something.....but what is the most significant attribute of toothpaste? What is inside the tube or semi-pliable box or pump is exactly what the label says-toothpaste. As I'm thinking about this, I'm wondering what it would be like if the toothpaste tycoons of the world united in a collaborative effort to baffle the world's toothpaste-consuming population. What if...instead of placing a minty, germ-annihilating paste inside their tubes, the toothpaste tycoons decided to utilize one of the world's most prevalent substances- thick, brown, wet, gooey mud. You know, just like you used to make mud pies with when you were a kid. What if....during your sleepy-eyed morning routine you pulled out your tube of toothpaste, flipped open the cap, gave it a good squeeze and....WHAT?????
Hmm. I wonder what that would be like? What if the most significant attribute of toothpaste- its consistency to be exactly what the label says it is- could no longer be trusted? Huh. Just wondering. Ok ok...there is more to my toothpaste deliberations than the mud-laden conspiracy of the toothpaste tycoons. The speculation that currently heckles my mind is this: Am I toothpaste?
While I wouldn't mind smelling like spearmint or possessing the ability to single-handedly eradicate the likelihood of gum disease, I'd like to dig a little deeper. My question is this: Do my insides match my outsides? Do my characteristics match my label? While unfortunately my label may change from time to time (which is another discussion altogether), the label I hope to wear would read as such:
Megan Taylor
Pursuing purpose and love...living as if Jesus is the point. Wife. Sister. Friend. Disciple. Lover of truth....
But when my cap is flipped open and I'm given a good squeeze...is this what comes out? Do I smell like mint? Or a landfill? Am I a smooth paste? Or a gritty mixture? Am I pursuing purpose and love with everything...counting all as rubbish for the sake of Christ- truly making Him the point? Hmm. Maybe sometimes. Maybe not. And most of the time, my insides probably look a lot like mint-chocolate chip ice cream...a little toothpaste mixed with a little mud. But as I sit here tonight with my tube of Colgate Total Whitening by my side I wonder...how can I make toothpaste my reality?
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Finally....and Forever....
Sweet Friends and Family…
First of all, I would like to apologize for my crazy delay in sending this letter out to you. I have had the chance to speak with some of you about our trip to Haiti…and some of you have perused our pictures on facebook and have caught glimpses of what our Haiti experience was like. The truth is, I have hesitated writing this letter. For the past 3 months, I have had “Haiti Letter” as a reminder on my phone, and every time I sit down to dispense my words onto paper, I freeze. Because the truth is, words are simply not enough.
Words cannot describe the eyes of so many Haitian faces, empty of everything but desperation. Words cannot describe the Haitian streets- lined with rubble and brokenness- and among them thousands upon thousands of beautiful people, living in complete loss. Words cannot describe the conditions of the tent cities or the walls of photos surrounding them- where individuals and families gather, still hopeful that they will find their loved ones. Nope, words do not do justice here. But in the midst of this, I want to remember what I wrote to you before we had stepped foot out of the airplane in Port-Au-Prince. I want to remember my declaration to you…
So…. I say....let’s be different. Let’s flip the coin. What if there is more? What if…on the other side of all of this pain and suffering and hurt and loss...is hope and love and healing and redemption? What if tear-stained faces can become beacons of hope; if piles of rubble can become a testament to something hugely beautiful? Because if the Lord is indeed close to the brokenhearted, His presence must simply consume Haiti. So much so that your lungs are encapsulated by Him with each and every breath, that your hands brush His with each movement. And as that beautiful picture illuminates the intricacies of my clouded mind, my heart begins to beat faster...the corners of my mouth begin to turn up into a smile...and the deepest being within me begins to dance!
Because on the other side of the coin…words cannot describe the embrace of an orphan child, or the smile on his face when he realizes you are there for love. Words cannot describe the excitement on the faces of those living in a small Haitian community when a new home is erected in their neighborhood. Words cannot describe the faith of the Haitian pastor who has seen nothing but devastation but continues to believe that the Lord will provide. The trip was absolutely incredible! We entered into this beautiful country without knowing what our time would look like, but trusting that the Lord’s plan was bigger than ours. Upon our initial arrival, we were instantly greeted by the incredible team at Thirst No More, and hopped into vans to head to our home for the week. The ride to the Thirst No More house must have been at least an hour, but silence was the primary sound as we were humbled by the brokenness of our surroundings- tent cities, buildings in shambles, streets lined with Haitian people selling bananas and sugar cane and anything else their family may have been able to produce. By the time we had reached the Thirst No More house, the love story between my heart and this beautiful country had already begun.
In the days that followed, my heart only became more and more captivated by this incredible people. We had the privilege of spending significant amounts of time at 3 different orphanages in Haiti. The differences between them were stark, and my heart wrenched with pain as we observed some of the conditions there. The children, however, were incredible! And it is these children that continue to capture my heart. During the course of our week in Haiti we held them, laughed with them, played with them, cried with them, sang with them, and shared the love of Christ with them. The words “I love you”, uttered in Creole into my ear by a young Haitian boy when we departed his orphanage will always remind my heart of the time we spent there. 
Our team also had the opportunity to build a house for a young Haitian family that had lost their home when the earthquake struck in January. The home was much like what we would consider to be a “storage shed”, a 10x10 structure created with plywood and a tin roof. Soon after we started the project, our team learned that this new house would soon become ‘home’ to a single mom and her 5 children. Realizing that 6 Haitian people would be residing in a space smaller than my guest bedroom sent a dagger through my heart- yet they were so incredibly thankful, and many of the neighboring families stopped by during our work to ask whether we could build one for them as well. This completely blew my mind (and continues to do so) as I ponder the incredible excess of my life….a life in which I often compare myself to others and think “if only I could have more.”
I could speak for hours about how this trip has challenged my heart. It has challenged the very principles by which I live and has convicted my spirit as I realize more and more that all of life comes down to just one thing…..To Know Jesus, and to make Him known. Nothing else matters. I am still grappling with this idea and processing how this is to make a practical, tangible difference in the way I live my life…and in the way Nic and I live our lives together. If you ever have the urge to hear more about our trip or about this idea, please give us a call or shoot us an email. We would love share more stories with you and to tell you of how the Lord is guiding our hearts.
Thank you…thank you…thank you for making this trip a possibility for us. Thank you for your incredible support both financially and prayerfully as we embarked on this journey- a journey which I believe is far from complete. Another thing we have realized from this trip is simply the magnificence of the body of Christ, and you all have been a huge part of that for us. Thank you. As we go from here, Haiti is still heavy on our hearts. We are currently praying and thinking through our role in ministering to this nation, and are praying through the possibility of future trips, projects etc. Again if you have any questions about this, we would love to chat! Thanks again for being our community and for loving us. We are truly blessed!
Nic and Megan Taylor
**Feel free to check out our pictures on facebook, or contact us here:
nic.and.megan@gmail.com
479-903-2478
479-903-2478
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Verbal spewage, late night runs, and spasticity
Today was one of those days. No...not one of those days filled with melancholic interactions and trivial frustrations that should be accompanied by a characteristically despondent soundtrack infused with the likes of Johnny Cash, Radiohead, and Death Cab....Nope, not that kind of day. Today- was one of those days when words aren't enough. When no combination of metaphors and adjectives and discombombulated sentence structures could possibly reflect the reality of Megan in this moment. Still, words are all I know. And it's funny, because it is precisely those days when words are not enough that seem to be dictated by words more than ever. Today was no exception. Recognizing that my words would be inadequate, I spent most of my day alternating between the state of absolute silence and that of complete and chaotic verbal spewage. (Put another way, I talked. Way. Too. Much.) It's almost as if my addiction to words has become so fierce that when they just aren't cuttin' it, my heart gets so soaked with the reality of me that I lose all sense of direction and social normalcy and turn into this goobery conglomoration of spastic-ness. And so tonight, because I cannot possibly squeeze a tiny camera far enough into my arteries to take a picture of my heart for you, a goobery congolomoration of spastic-ness it is. (And I promise, I will try to de-spasticize as much as possible. :)
I just got back from a late-night run. It is 12:23 am. I know what you may be thinking, "Megan, what are you doing running by yourself at midnight! So not safe...". Yep, tis true. Each time I lace up my shoes and step out of my house at a time when most are unlacing their shoes and slipping into bed, the often hidden common sense Megan emerges from the depths to inform me that I am making an unsound decision. Still, I choose to consistently defy common sense Megan's authority and step out of the house anyway. It's a habit that my often over-crowded schedule (and utter perfection of the art of procrastination) has induced, and one that I just can't seem to squelch.
For me, these late night runs have become much more than that which allows me to feel a little less guilty every time I grab an extra brownie. (Which, as most who know me would say, is every time). These runs have become an escape from the traffic of life. A small chunk of time when I can embrance the spasticity of my being and attempt to deconstruct the mess that has accumulated in my mind. On those rare days when words are not enough, these runs become especially enticing to me. Tonight's run was perfect. The temperature was ideal. It was quiet. I passed only a single car throughout the entire duration. My legs weren't cramping. Perfect. And before long...the deconstruction began...
In the midst of my verbal spewage today, there were a few conversational moments that captured my heart. That casually offered reminders that I didn't know I so desperately needed. As I talked with a friend this afternoon, our conversation wandered to a chat about times of change and uncertainty. We talked a bit about the perpetual difficulty that accompanies our attempts to relinquish control...which I believe has almost always reigned as my number one demise. And as we talked, I was reminded once again of the truth that has become my stronghold over this past year: that the Lord is enough. As our conversation meandered away from this topic and my afternoon (and verbal spewage) continued on, my spastic mind simply could not separate itself from this time...
As my feet continued to pound the pavement along the streets of Centerton tonight, this thought was central. The Lord is enough. The Lord is enough. The Lord is enough. The Lord is enough. What does that mean? Not literally. Not semantically. But truly. Wake up in the morning, throw my blue jeans on and jump in my car mean. Dinner with a friend mean. Listen to the heartbreak of another mean. Live my life mean. As it would turn out, today was more than just a words are not enough day. It was a get smacked upside the head with a dose of who I really am day. And so these realities began to permeate my mind....I am a worrier. I am a procastinator. I am a liar. I often talk way too much...and then worry myself crazy the rest of the day with my unnecessary words. I often hurt those I love. I am driven by many perfectionistic tendencies, but often mask them with my laid-back approach to life. I am prideful. I am jealous. I get my feelings hurt much easier than I will allow you to think. I....my friends....am broken.
While the reailty of the brokenness of humanity is something I have slowly been learning to accept over past months, it is a reality I have been reluctant to lay over my own life. It has been relatively easy to observe the brokenness of humanity in the faces of the children and families I see at work everday. In the piles of rubble and delapidated buildings that line the streets of Haiti. But despite the brokenness I have observed in the lives of others, I have avoided removing the casings that have for so long masked the brokenness of my own heart. Why? Because it's easier with them on. It's easier for me to pick a different colored cast for each part...believing that I look much better adorned with fiberglass of various colors. But what I don't realize is that when a cast is left on for too long, the skin begins to discolor and the muscle begins to atrophy. And long before I may realize the damage, the effects may become far-reaching.
And so tonight, my friends, my spastic-ness has given me a picture of me. Cast-less me. Broken me. But it has also given me a much greater understanding of the Lord's enoughness. Enough. Like nothing else matters, enough. Like no matter what, enough. Like when financial burdens threaten and relationships change and life is full of pain, enough. And most of all, enough to cover my brokenness. My shortfalls. My days of verbal spewage and moments of complete silence...and then the time I spend worrying about them. Enough. And as I sit here tonight...legs weary and shirt sweaty and eyes tired from a long day and a good run, it is this truth that I cling to. Because no matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to be enough on my own. And even if I could, I'm pretty sure my urge to practice the art of procrasination will not remain dormant for long. :)
I just got back from a late-night run. It is 12:23 am. I know what you may be thinking, "Megan, what are you doing running by yourself at midnight! So not safe...". Yep, tis true. Each time I lace up my shoes and step out of my house at a time when most are unlacing their shoes and slipping into bed, the often hidden common sense Megan emerges from the depths to inform me that I am making an unsound decision. Still, I choose to consistently defy common sense Megan's authority and step out of the house anyway. It's a habit that my often over-crowded schedule (and utter perfection of the art of procrastination) has induced, and one that I just can't seem to squelch.
For me, these late night runs have become much more than that which allows me to feel a little less guilty every time I grab an extra brownie. (Which, as most who know me would say, is every time). These runs have become an escape from the traffic of life. A small chunk of time when I can embrance the spasticity of my being and attempt to deconstruct the mess that has accumulated in my mind. On those rare days when words are not enough, these runs become especially enticing to me. Tonight's run was perfect. The temperature was ideal. It was quiet. I passed only a single car throughout the entire duration. My legs weren't cramping. Perfect. And before long...the deconstruction began...
In the midst of my verbal spewage today, there were a few conversational moments that captured my heart. That casually offered reminders that I didn't know I so desperately needed. As I talked with a friend this afternoon, our conversation wandered to a chat about times of change and uncertainty. We talked a bit about the perpetual difficulty that accompanies our attempts to relinquish control...which I believe has almost always reigned as my number one demise. And as we talked, I was reminded once again of the truth that has become my stronghold over this past year: that the Lord is enough. As our conversation meandered away from this topic and my afternoon (and verbal spewage) continued on, my spastic mind simply could not separate itself from this time...
As my feet continued to pound the pavement along the streets of Centerton tonight, this thought was central. The Lord is enough. The Lord is enough. The Lord is enough. The Lord is enough. What does that mean? Not literally. Not semantically. But truly. Wake up in the morning, throw my blue jeans on and jump in my car mean. Dinner with a friend mean. Listen to the heartbreak of another mean. Live my life mean. As it would turn out, today was more than just a words are not enough day. It was a get smacked upside the head with a dose of who I really am day. And so these realities began to permeate my mind....I am a worrier. I am a procastinator. I am a liar. I often talk way too much...and then worry myself crazy the rest of the day with my unnecessary words. I often hurt those I love. I am driven by many perfectionistic tendencies, but often mask them with my laid-back approach to life. I am prideful. I am jealous. I get my feelings hurt much easier than I will allow you to think. I....my friends....am broken.
While the reailty of the brokenness of humanity is something I have slowly been learning to accept over past months, it is a reality I have been reluctant to lay over my own life. It has been relatively easy to observe the brokenness of humanity in the faces of the children and families I see at work everday. In the piles of rubble and delapidated buildings that line the streets of Haiti. But despite the brokenness I have observed in the lives of others, I have avoided removing the casings that have for so long masked the brokenness of my own heart. Why? Because it's easier with them on. It's easier for me to pick a different colored cast for each part...believing that I look much better adorned with fiberglass of various colors. But what I don't realize is that when a cast is left on for too long, the skin begins to discolor and the muscle begins to atrophy. And long before I may realize the damage, the effects may become far-reaching.
And so tonight, my friends, my spastic-ness has given me a picture of me. Cast-less me. Broken me. But it has also given me a much greater understanding of the Lord's enoughness. Enough. Like nothing else matters, enough. Like no matter what, enough. Like when financial burdens threaten and relationships change and life is full of pain, enough. And most of all, enough to cover my brokenness. My shortfalls. My days of verbal spewage and moments of complete silence...and then the time I spend worrying about them. Enough. And as I sit here tonight...legs weary and shirt sweaty and eyes tired from a long day and a good run, it is this truth that I cling to. Because no matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to be enough on my own. And even if I could, I'm pretty sure my urge to practice the art of procrasination will not remain dormant for long. :)
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Mudlingers...
Howdy folks! Yep, I am a blog slacker. These are some thoughts I had started to write down as I have continued to process the idea of riding the "bike of love"...so sorry I'm positing it a little late! Also, we returned from our trip to Haiti about a week ago....more on the trip coming soon!!! :)
Northwest Arkansas has boasted some pretty beautiful weather this week. If you have ever spent much time with me, then you probably know that I am a warm weather freak. A sunshine junkie. Addicted to the feeling of the sun's warm rays beating down upon my face. (And, albeit the warnings of many a doctor...I am more than slightly addicted to a nice tan). When the sun comes up and the temperature gauge rises above the 70 degree mark, my little heart leaps for joy and I literally have to make a conscious effort not to get up out of my seat and run outside. Or at least stare out my window all day. (If I'm honest, I have to admit that sometimes my inner warm weather wiggle worm gets the best of me, and my struggle then becomes summoning enough will power to get myself back inside to finish the workday).
Monday was a particularly pefect day- 75 and sunny without a cloud in the sky. The birds were chirping, a warm breeze was blowing ever so slightly, and I managed to turn the space heater in my office off before 11am for the first time since I can remember (this, my friends, is quite a feat!). As the end of the workday neared, my mind began to postulate all possible options for enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Take a nap under a tree? Go for a run? And then- duh! Motorcycle ride! I sent a quick text to my hubby, who swiftly obliged my request to hop on our motorcycles and cruise down to Fayetteville for dinner. And of course, we elected Fayetteville's finest restaurant...the one where they serve the most scrumptious Chicken Rigatoni ever to be created....Noodles! (Noodles is where we had our first date, is one of my favorite restaurants, and holds lots of sweet memories for me.) Considering my deep-seeded fear of riding my headstrong Honda Rebel on the freeway, we charted out our course of side roads, and hit the pavement!
It was a beautiful ride. Not too hot, not too cold...perfect. Just me and my husband taming the streets with our magnificent two-wheeled maneuvering machines. On Monday, the ride was easy. Smooth. Painless and anxiety-free. (And, of course, the chicken rigatoni was better than perfect.) And this got me thinking- wouldn't it be nice if my rides on my "bike of love" were like that? Painless and anxiety-free? If everywhere my bike took me was warm and sunny and perfect? Yes please! Because sometimes...on days when I do rally up enough courage to hop on the bike....it really is perfect and sunny and painless and anxiety free. And then sometimes...it is....well....not.
Last Saturday marked day 4 of having my very own motorcycle, and I was pumped! Nic and I had picked it up in Fayetteville on a Wednesday night, and Northwest Arkansas' erratic rainy weather had kept me from riding it for 4 WHOLE days! We have some friends who had entered their 1970 Camaro into a car show that Saturday, and we had been planning to ride our bikes up to the show to join in the festivities. While I am ordinarily an optimistic person and genuinely like most every person I have met, I have this thing against weathermen. I can't explain it- but they push my buttons and light my fuse more often than any other underpaid, overrated, prime-time television pretty face I have ever seen! This Saturday was no different. What did my underpaid, overrated, prime-time television, pretty face weatherman promise me? Sunshine! And when I awoke on Saturday morning with an excited heart and hopeful spirit....what did I see? Rain! Rain! Rain! And more....Rain! Yep, rain.
I have to admit that my heart sank more than just a little bit when I peered out the window to the west and noticed the ominously dark clouds headed in our direction. We stuck it out at home a little longer than we had originally planned, hoping that somehow the clouds would clear and the sky would brighten and we could make the 30 minute trip to Gateway, AR on our bikes. When lunchtime finally rolled around, we reluctantly hopped into Nora (my often under appreciated Nissan Versa) and hit the road, leaving our glimmering two-wheeled rides behind.
As Nora navigated the wet and rainy curves of Hwy 62, I received a smile-inducing text from my friend letting me know that the sun had indeed decided to peek its head out from behind the clouds in Gateway! We had planned to head to church after the carshow, and by some stroke of luck, the rain had dissipated by the time we headed back home to get ready. I somehow managed to convince my sweet husband that since we didn't get to ride our bikes to the carshow, we simply needed to ride them church. (Mostly, I was just excited that I had a new bike, and that I hadn't had much of a chance to peruse Northwest Arkansas on the open road as of yet).
We left for church slightly earlier than we normally would, conceding that those beautiful white clouds we could see in the distance just might be slightly more precocious than we were predicting. The clouds did not hide their precociousness for long, and by the time we had reached the half-way point of our journey, rain began to fall. Luckily, because of my utter dislike of all things wet and cold (except, of course, for ice cream), I had hopped on my bike prepared- armed with a gore-tex jacket and water-resistant shoes. The precocious clouds continued their precociousness until we reached church, though we were fortunate enough to avoid what the clouds must have been conspiring as we rode- a complete and unmitigated downpour that instantly enveloped all of Northwest Arkansas the moment my water-resistant shoe entered the building.
Luckily clouds (especially Northwest Arkansas clouds) often seem particularly concerned with making the most of their time, and this occasion was no exception. The precocious clouds wasted no time dumping their contents on the unsuspecting residents of Rogers, Arkansas, and were kind enough to have completed this process by the time church was over. Tired and half-way expecting another precocious cloud to show it's ugly face, my hubs and I hopped on our road-conquering, hard-core Hondas and headed home.
Much of my motorcycle riding thus far has proven rather uneventful, which is something I have been quite thankful for. I have restricted most of my riding to back roads and sunny days, hoping to bypass all possibilities of distractions or unexpected obstacles. This particular Saturday night, for the most part, proved no different. We slowly made our way home, mastering the dark and damp roads with ease. As we turned left onto the highway that would take us home, I noticed a rather large truck headed in our direction. My heart began to beat a little faster, and my hands tightened their grip on my handlebars. While driving next to particularly large vehicles generally does elicit a heightened sense of anxiety within me, I was unprepared for what happened. Splash! Swoosh! What??? The truck had driven through what I am sure was Northwest Arkansas' largest puddle of muddy water, and had managed to completely coat my entire body as well as that of my bike in a yucky, muddy wet mess. Thankfully I was able to wipe the shield of my helmet clean enough to see for the remainder of the trip home, but I was NOT a happy camper!
You see, this particular Saturday did not quite go as planned. I didn't get to ride to the show. I was wet. I was muddy. My bike was muddy. I had finally made the choice to ride, and the world around me seemed to be doing anything it could to thwart this joy. You see, more often that not, I feel like this is what it's like when we make the decision to hop on the bike. When we choose to put ourselves out there and puruse our purpose of love. There's mud. There's rain. There are a million things that keep us from even garnering the courage to hop on the bike in the first place. And then....even when we are able to strap on our helmets and hit the road... even then... we are splattered with mud. We are trampled on. We are hurt. We are broken.
So, what do we do with this mud? Do we simply choose not to ride on the rainy days? That's one option. But what if the mud is just a part of the ride? What if, in order to become a real 'biker' (I'm talkin' a chap wearin', throttle bustin', leather clad kinda biker) we choose the ride, no matter what the conditions? You see, part of me was a little proud when I got home and took off my mud-streaked helmet and admired my newly mud-splattered bike. It was almost as if I had entered a whole new level of biker-ness...I had been through the mud...and had come out on the other side. What if love is a little bit like this? What if the mud brings us to a whole new level of 'love-ness?' Because I believe it does. That when we get back up and brush it off...and still choose to hop back on the bike...we are choosing love in a new way. And so, I'll keep riding. I'll wipe down my helment and rinse off my jacket and jump back on. Because the ride is worth it. Purpose is worth it. Love...is worth it.
Northwest Arkansas has boasted some pretty beautiful weather this week. If you have ever spent much time with me, then you probably know that I am a warm weather freak. A sunshine junkie. Addicted to the feeling of the sun's warm rays beating down upon my face. (And, albeit the warnings of many a doctor...I am more than slightly addicted to a nice tan). When the sun comes up and the temperature gauge rises above the 70 degree mark, my little heart leaps for joy and I literally have to make a conscious effort not to get up out of my seat and run outside. Or at least stare out my window all day. (If I'm honest, I have to admit that sometimes my inner warm weather wiggle worm gets the best of me, and my struggle then becomes summoning enough will power to get myself back inside to finish the workday).
Monday was a particularly pefect day- 75 and sunny without a cloud in the sky. The birds were chirping, a warm breeze was blowing ever so slightly, and I managed to turn the space heater in my office off before 11am for the first time since I can remember (this, my friends, is quite a feat!). As the end of the workday neared, my mind began to postulate all possible options for enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Take a nap under a tree? Go for a run? And then- duh! Motorcycle ride! I sent a quick text to my hubby, who swiftly obliged my request to hop on our motorcycles and cruise down to Fayetteville for dinner. And of course, we elected Fayetteville's finest restaurant...the one where they serve the most scrumptious Chicken Rigatoni ever to be created....Noodles! (Noodles is where we had our first date, is one of my favorite restaurants, and holds lots of sweet memories for me.) Considering my deep-seeded fear of riding my headstrong Honda Rebel on the freeway, we charted out our course of side roads, and hit the pavement!
It was a beautiful ride. Not too hot, not too cold...perfect. Just me and my husband taming the streets with our magnificent two-wheeled maneuvering machines. On Monday, the ride was easy. Smooth. Painless and anxiety-free. (And, of course, the chicken rigatoni was better than perfect.) And this got me thinking- wouldn't it be nice if my rides on my "bike of love" were like that? Painless and anxiety-free? If everywhere my bike took me was warm and sunny and perfect? Yes please! Because sometimes...on days when I do rally up enough courage to hop on the bike....it really is perfect and sunny and painless and anxiety free. And then sometimes...it is....well....not.
Last Saturday marked day 4 of having my very own motorcycle, and I was pumped! Nic and I had picked it up in Fayetteville on a Wednesday night, and Northwest Arkansas' erratic rainy weather had kept me from riding it for 4 WHOLE days! We have some friends who had entered their 1970 Camaro into a car show that Saturday, and we had been planning to ride our bikes up to the show to join in the festivities. While I am ordinarily an optimistic person and genuinely like most every person I have met, I have this thing against weathermen. I can't explain it- but they push my buttons and light my fuse more often than any other underpaid, overrated, prime-time television pretty face I have ever seen! This Saturday was no different. What did my underpaid, overrated, prime-time television, pretty face weatherman promise me? Sunshine! And when I awoke on Saturday morning with an excited heart and hopeful spirit....what did I see? Rain! Rain! Rain! And more....Rain! Yep, rain.
I have to admit that my heart sank more than just a little bit when I peered out the window to the west and noticed the ominously dark clouds headed in our direction. We stuck it out at home a little longer than we had originally planned, hoping that somehow the clouds would clear and the sky would brighten and we could make the 30 minute trip to Gateway, AR on our bikes. When lunchtime finally rolled around, we reluctantly hopped into Nora (my often under appreciated Nissan Versa) and hit the road, leaving our glimmering two-wheeled rides behind.
As Nora navigated the wet and rainy curves of Hwy 62, I received a smile-inducing text from my friend letting me know that the sun had indeed decided to peek its head out from behind the clouds in Gateway! We had planned to head to church after the carshow, and by some stroke of luck, the rain had dissipated by the time we headed back home to get ready. I somehow managed to convince my sweet husband that since we didn't get to ride our bikes to the carshow, we simply needed to ride them church. (Mostly, I was just excited that I had a new bike, and that I hadn't had much of a chance to peruse Northwest Arkansas on the open road as of yet).
We left for church slightly earlier than we normally would, conceding that those beautiful white clouds we could see in the distance just might be slightly more precocious than we were predicting. The clouds did not hide their precociousness for long, and by the time we had reached the half-way point of our journey, rain began to fall. Luckily, because of my utter dislike of all things wet and cold (except, of course, for ice cream), I had hopped on my bike prepared- armed with a gore-tex jacket and water-resistant shoes. The precocious clouds continued their precociousness until we reached church, though we were fortunate enough to avoid what the clouds must have been conspiring as we rode- a complete and unmitigated downpour that instantly enveloped all of Northwest Arkansas the moment my water-resistant shoe entered the building.
Luckily clouds (especially Northwest Arkansas clouds) often seem particularly concerned with making the most of their time, and this occasion was no exception. The precocious clouds wasted no time dumping their contents on the unsuspecting residents of Rogers, Arkansas, and were kind enough to have completed this process by the time church was over. Tired and half-way expecting another precocious cloud to show it's ugly face, my hubs and I hopped on our road-conquering, hard-core Hondas and headed home.
Much of my motorcycle riding thus far has proven rather uneventful, which is something I have been quite thankful for. I have restricted most of my riding to back roads and sunny days, hoping to bypass all possibilities of distractions or unexpected obstacles. This particular Saturday night, for the most part, proved no different. We slowly made our way home, mastering the dark and damp roads with ease. As we turned left onto the highway that would take us home, I noticed a rather large truck headed in our direction. My heart began to beat a little faster, and my hands tightened their grip on my handlebars. While driving next to particularly large vehicles generally does elicit a heightened sense of anxiety within me, I was unprepared for what happened. Splash! Swoosh! What??? The truck had driven through what I am sure was Northwest Arkansas' largest puddle of muddy water, and had managed to completely coat my entire body as well as that of my bike in a yucky, muddy wet mess. Thankfully I was able to wipe the shield of my helmet clean enough to see for the remainder of the trip home, but I was NOT a happy camper!
You see, this particular Saturday did not quite go as planned. I didn't get to ride to the show. I was wet. I was muddy. My bike was muddy. I had finally made the choice to ride, and the world around me seemed to be doing anything it could to thwart this joy. You see, more often that not, I feel like this is what it's like when we make the decision to hop on the bike. When we choose to put ourselves out there and puruse our purpose of love. There's mud. There's rain. There are a million things that keep us from even garnering the courage to hop on the bike in the first place. And then....even when we are able to strap on our helmets and hit the road... even then... we are splattered with mud. We are trampled on. We are hurt. We are broken.
So, what do we do with this mud? Do we simply choose not to ride on the rainy days? That's one option. But what if the mud is just a part of the ride? What if, in order to become a real 'biker' (I'm talkin' a chap wearin', throttle bustin', leather clad kinda biker) we choose the ride, no matter what the conditions? You see, part of me was a little proud when I got home and took off my mud-streaked helmet and admired my newly mud-splattered bike. It was almost as if I had entered a whole new level of biker-ness...I had been through the mud...and had come out on the other side. What if love is a little bit like this? What if the mud brings us to a whole new level of 'love-ness?' Because I believe it does. That when we get back up and brush it off...and still choose to hop back on the bike...we are choosing love in a new way. And so, I'll keep riding. I'll wipe down my helment and rinse off my jacket and jump back on. Because the ride is worth it. Purpose is worth it. Love...is worth it.
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