When I Think of Freedom

I’ve had this girlish fantasy for a few years now.  It’s a little vain, maybe, but the desire remains.  You know those photos or commercials you see of women in flowing white dresses, running across green, flower-clad meadows?  I want a picture of myself being that woman.  I want to wear a long, wispy dress that fans out all around me as I twirl in circles with my eyes closed, arms outstretched, palms facing the sky, head upturned, with a smile welcoming the sunbeams that kiss my face in response.  I want to laugh in elation at the wonder and joy of life.  There are no bounds to my meadow.  Trees dot the landscape here and there, but there are no mountains or forests that enclose it, caging me in.

 




 

I want to feel free and confident – not the kind of confident that comes with lots of people telling you how awesome you are, or that you’re really funny, or that you should write a book or become a counselor.  Rather, the confidence that comes with a steadfast faith in the Giver of your identity.  And this confidence is hard to come by for me because I look for my identity in all the wrong things.  Like other people.  Because, at the end of the day, one of my greatest desires is for people to know me.  Really know me.  Know me and love me in such an impossible way that, after they’ve failed me a few/lot of times, I remember again that I really just want them to be Jesus.

 

I want Jesus in all the people from whom I seek attention and affirmation.  I want perfect pursuit.  Perfect, servant-hearted love.  The kind that makes me feel safe, like I’m not an annoying toddler who keeps spilling her milk or making a mess of the pretty table arrangement or being too loud when important things are happening.  I want Jesus in someone to look at me in my mess, pick me up, and wrap me up in their arms, laughing at how cute I am just because I’m alive.  And I want Jesus in someone to hold me close against their chest and hum soothing melodies and sing songs over me.  And I want, well, Him to speak life over my life and hold me in His arms and stroke my hair until I fall asleep.  Secure, blissful, peaceful rest.

 



 

I recently started working in a psychiatric hospital/residential treatment center.  I work in one of the children’s units, where kids enter in a state of crisis.  Most of them have some kind of abusive background, and many are self-harming and suicidal.  In order to protect the kids and/or ourselves from various forms of danger, we sometimes have to put them in therapeutic holds. One of my coworkers calls it “wrapping them up,” this action of restraining their arms behind their backs and seating them on the ground until they can calm down, process, and remember that there are coping skills that don’t involve stabbing their peers with pencils or punching door handles.  And once we feel certain that the child’s response to the situation will look different and better than before, we communicate that it’s time to slowly get up, verbally process through what happened, and return to the normal day’s activities.

 



 

When I think about the concept of freedom, all of these pictures feel vaguely familiar, like I’ve been in each of them at one point or another.  And it all makes me wonder if freedom comes in different forms.  It’s a woman dancing in a field without limits or a baby sleeping in a secure embrace or a kid who took freedom too far and needs to be redirected to a better expression of it – for her good.  And I wonder if freedom is sometimes accessing the liberty of saying yes but also embracing the maturity in saying no.

 

Rob Bell said something like that in Velvet Elvis, writing that “Freedom is not having everything we crave, it’s being able to go without the things we crave and being OK with it.”

 

That makes sense to me, because it tells me that when I’m free, I’m not a slave to anything.

 

I stumbled upon a verse awhile back that paints the perfect Scripture picture of my fantasy.  Psalm 119:45 in the ESV says, “and I shall walk in a wide place, for I have sought your precepts.”  In the NIV, it states, “I will walk about in freedom.”

 

I feel like I’ve been drifting around pretty aimlessly these past couple of months.  It makes me tired.  Tired of paving my own road to freedom and sucking at it.

 

It’s kind of ironic to me that pursuing holy boundaries – following the steps of the Maker – would lead to the real thing, the freedom that is pure and good and confident and safe.  Something about denying yourself and taking up your cross, right?  And even though I still mostly get it, the rebellious child in me wants to buck against authority and do what I want.

 

Or get picked up and rocked to sleep.

 

When I awake, I will see you face to face and be satisfied. Psalm 17:15

 

For Mackenzie

I cradled your tiny body in my arms during the wee hours of a Tuesday morning.  You slept peacefully as I whispered words of prayer and promise over you.

 

You are wanted.

You are loved.

You are chosen.

 

It wasn’t easy, letting you go.  Your birth mommy’s tears fell on your little swaddled form as she held you in her arms, probably full of thoughts of what could be, what would not be, and what would be so much greater because she chose you over herself.

 

We passed you around the circle of those who had to say goodbye, at least for now.  We held you close, not wanting to forget a single feature of your face, not wanting to waste a single second of the final ones in which you were ours.  We told you how much we love you.  How precious you are to us.  Words of truth and life you certainly can’t understand right now, but words that will be forever true, words we want you to carry in your heart and soul every single day of your existence.

 

As you get older, baby girl, I hope you never face any lies of rejection, abandonment, and unwantedness surrounding the first weeks of your little life.  I hope you are one day able to fathom how eternally changed we have been by welcoming you into the world.  How much we absolutely adore and desire the very best for you.

 

Mackenzie, you are unbelievably wanted.  Loved.  Chosen.  By us.  By the ones who have the great blessing of raising you from infancy to womanhood.  But, most of all, by the One who created you.

 

I can’t wait for the day when you can stand up and make your own decision to pursue the One who pursued you first.  The One who knew you in your innermost being before even we did.  Who loved you before our hearts were captured by you.  Whose hands fashioned you together before ours got to hold you.  He is your Father, Savior, Lover, Redeemer, Best Friend.  I can’t wait to tell you about Him, to see your eyes light up when you comprehend the Gift He gave you.  I can’t wait for you to feel the depth of a love that is so much greater than anyone else can give you.

 

Mackenzie, if you’re ever in doubt, always know you have a family whose moon you hung, as well as a Father who will scoop you up in His arms and sing these now-familiar words over you:

 

I want you.

I love you.

I choose you.

 

 

Back from the Dead

Oh, hi!

Reagan's not dead; she's surely alive...

Suddenly, I get back to the real world, and I forget that maintaining contact with others still matters.  Oops.  Thanks to those of you who have sent the, “Hey, where the heck are you – did you make it out of Alaska alive?” e-mails to remind me to start updating again.

Well, I’ve been back to 2 months.  Since then, I’ve done a significant amount of sleeping and catching up with people I like and meeting new people and getting more involved at my church and a little bit of road tripping.  The usual. 

…….

This is an excerpt from the "Missionary-ish Tales" e-news.  Read the rest here.

The Art of Letting Go

 Original image source

I walked past the open door, my travel mug refilled, ready to once again plug away at figuring out how the next few months of my life would look after leaving Echo Ranch Bible Camp.

But the outside beckoned me.  Maybe it was You.  I don’t know what it was, but something told me not to go back downstairs, isolated, a slave to the Internet’s grand and varied offers for what my future could look like.

So I went.

This summer, with all my intents and purposes of growing, improving, and letting go, was exactly not that kind of season.  It was a season of holding on.  Holding on to what if?s in a recently ended relationship, projected hopes of a new Christian community, expectations of my stunning performance as a leader, and above all, the confidence that I would know exactly what I would be doing with my life once it was all over.

 Original image source

I walked past the Purple Bench.  I had originally intended on stopping there.  Maybe sitting down and enjoying the view of… the bath house?  Or maybe just the feeling of sitting in the sun.  But I kept walking.  I didn’t really know why.  Maybe I would go lie down in the middle of the sports field.  Soak up the rays that aren’t easy to come by during a summer in Southeast Alaska.  The path there was a little to the left.

God had called me here.  There haven’t been many times in my life when I could say that with confidence, but I knew it to be true now.  But as the weeks progressed, I watched my expectations crumble before my eyes.  I was a seasoned professional at this.  If any experience should have hammered that truth into my brain, it would have been the Race.  But I thought these were more realistic.  Instead, loneliness seeped in when quality time and vulnerability were scarce.  Feelings of failure abounded when my attempts to fulfill my role fell short. Uncertainty, anxiety, and depression crept up on me as I considered the possibilities and unknowns of my future again… and again… and again.  And, to top it all off, nobody liked feedback. 

I spent the summer being everywhere but here, and I knew it.  I felt like I had already thrown away opportunities to make the most of it, and nothing had even come out of all my fretting about what to do next.  I tossed, turned, and lay in a miserable heap of pity party in my bed one afternoon during the final few weeks, mulling it all over.  I listened to Jesus music and asked Him what heck I was supposed to do next.

And then I saw myself, scrambling around and trying to devise all these plans for what I would do.  But I wasn’t scrambling on the ground.  I was in the palm of a very large hand, and I didn’t even realize it.  I ran from one side of the palm to another, never noticing the fruitlessness of my efforts to do what I thought was best.  Because the hand was attached to Someone.  A wrist, to an arm, to a chest, to a neck to the head… of my Father.  My Father who was watching me run to and fro and sort of smiling knowingly.  As I looked in at myself, my scrambly little body, I thought, “If I were God, I would think that was so ridiculous. Why wouldn't I just trust Him, that He sees everything, and He's holding me, and He's in control? Why wouldn't I just rest, secure in His hand?"

Original image source

          

I turned right.  Why, I really didn’t know, but I didn’t really think about it.  Until I saw it and remembered.  The tiny little camp house referred to as the Love Shack. 

I had frequented this little home during my previous summer here because that is where my “camp mom”, Lyn, had lived.  We had talked together of things that mattered as she mixed together our favorite lemon drink concoction.  She told me her story.  And I marveled at how a woman so formerly broken could now be so full of love, grace, and joy.  

  

So often, my spirit’s response to a gentle Truth that sets it reeling is a simple, “Oh.”

I felt awakened.  Affirmed.  But not yet satisfied.  I knew there was more to trusting Him than just knowing I should do it.  It had to do with knowing Him.  Loving Him.  But what did that really mean, truly loving God with all my heart and soul and mind and strength?  I had seen others live that way.  I had been reading about it recently in one of the many books hailed by my World Race leaders.  I knew God was trustworthy, and I knew I loved Him.  But did I love Him like that?

          

I smiled as I walked up the porch steps and opened the door.  After making sure it was actually vacant, I settled into the couch where Lyn had shared her life with me four years ago.  Glancing around me, I noticed a book on the side table.  The Art of Loving God.  

I read the whole thing.  I cried.  I thanked.  I prayed.

I released.

I'm still processing through these kinds of things.  Intimacy.  Trust.  Love.  But in those still, sweet moments, I knew my Father was reaching down to me -- for me -- and saying, "Here, let Me help you understand a little better."  Maybe the point isn't me knowing all the things or being enough or getting it right or, you know, in control.  Just give. it. up.   (And haven't I already written like 56 blogs about this?)

What about you?  What kinds of things has God helped you understand in the midst of your own Crazy Land?

It is finished.

Echo Ranch’s final camp week of the summer ended on Friday, August 9^th, with 10- to 11-year-old kiddos on tractors bound for the beginning of their 2-mile hike out, waving goodbye to the canoes, the zipline, and everything else.



It was such a good week.  Of course, there were a couple of mishaps with campers not getting along, rolling their eyes instead of following directions, and burying their watches in the sand for safekeeping (and forgetting to mark the spot)…  But, overall, God provided a week for us to really enjoy the kids without trying too hard.



Although I didn’t counsel that week, the Broncos are definitely my favorite age group.  They’re the kids who are still young enough to think you’re awesome and not be embarrassed to open up about their lives and ask all the questions, but they’re old enough to have relatively intelligent conversations and understand the Gospel.  As usual, a few of the kids came to camp with zero/very little church background and no knowledge of Jesus.  One of them, Thomas, was attentive, wide-eyed, and inquisitive after every chapel message.  He absolutely soaked it up.  I honestly don’t know whether he made a decision to trust Jesus by the end of the week, but I can say that boy knew the News was Good.

Another boy struggled with other questions, like how to find “Oppossums” in the Bible.  After a bit of questioning from his counselors, they finally figured out he was talking about Psalms.

While I didn’t get to counsel in a cabin, I did get the opportunity to preach at chapel!  Our weekly message series always (usually) hits on these topics:

1.     Who is God?
2.     What is sin?
3.     Who is Jesus?
4.     Salvation
5.     Community & Evangelism

I spoke on #3, which basically consisted of throwing up a PowerPoint slideshow of about 20 pictures of stories about Jesus – and just talking about them.  It was awesome.  Of course, a lot of the pictures were a little cheesy…







But the kids listened.  And they were amazed.  It’s easy to forget just how incredible each detail of Jesus’ life on earth was until you make yourself a character in the story, imagining you were seeing it with your own eyes.  Seriously, Jesus raised a dead man to life?  He walked on the surface of the sea?  He made the blind see and the lame walk?  Most of us have heard those stories a million times, but our jaws would be dropping if we saw Him doing those kinds of things today.  (Want to know something cool?  That stuff still happens.)

The last picture of my slideshow sermon was of “The Last Supper.”  I asked the kids if they knew the name of the painting.  One of them yelled out “The Mona Lisa!”...  I tried not to laugh too hard.



Echo Ranch’s fulltime staff is entering into a new and exciting season.  Most of their heavy, intentional children’s ministry is focused on the summer camps, but they are seeing more and more that discipleship in the “off” season is absolutely essential.  During the last few weeks of camp, the director met with the counselors and brainstormed about how to "do discipleship" effectively.  Many kids need and desire this kind of spiritual leadership in their lives year-round, not just during the summer.

That’s where I am, too.  I’ve been home for just over a week now, and I am deeply craving discipleship in my own life.  I still don’t know what my next steps are.  Many of the counselors are in the same boat, and the failure to walk off our destination flights with a five-year plan in hand was a source of anxiety for some of us.  In spite of my inability to control every aspect of the future, though, God has been reminding me that my fulfillment will never come from my performance and circumstances, but in knowing and resting in Him.



As you read this and think about the kids and the counselors and the staff and me, please be lifting all of us up to the Father.  Ministry and discipleship, these things aren’t meant to be simply a “season”.   Pray that He opens our eyes to what He is doing and that we recognize His invitation for us to join Him.  Pray that for yourselves.  You won’t regret it.

Thank you all for your support and encouragement this summer.  I’ll keep you posted as God leads me to what He has next!

One Week Left

One week left.

After nine weeks of essentially the same games, the same messages, and the same meals—some of each being really awesome, and some I never want to experience again—looking at week ten before me holds a bittersweet essence.

I love camp, and in many ways, this summer has flown by.  Kids come, get acquainted with the cabins that will function as their families for the next four or five or six days, do all the activities, learn all about Jesus, and leave.  In other ways, each week can’t seem to end soon enough.  Kids throw tantrums because they don’t want to go to chapel or sleep or leave their stick they just found outside, and counselors get cranky because they want to have a moment to themselves or get any sleep or check all their Facebook notifications.



Some of the woes are certainly more legitimate than others.  Throughout the course of the past nine weeks, we’ve seen the effects of the brokenness that pervades much of Southeast Alaska.  Our second senior high camp was the week after the 4th of July.  Unlike the first round of high schoolers, this group was on the younger and less enthused side.  The activities and overall level of participation was a little more chill than usual, but it wasn’t just that.  There seemed to be this darkness that permeated that week.  As each day went on, we kept hearing these kids’ stories.  Stories of abuse and rape and inability to believe anyone could be good or trustworthy.  Stories steeped in a darkness you could feel.  A darkness that had settled over the hearts of these kids.  A darkness that became a hardness to the Truth, an inability to believe in the existence of God, let alone a God who could love them.  Our hearts broke as we listened to them open up, as we shared their stories with each other, as we prayed over them.  Prayed that they would be able to believe in the God who, for whatever reason, allowed these unspeakable things to occur – yet deeply desired to be their Healer.

Some of these kids didn’t have terrible stories.  Many had been campers since they were little, but they had heard the Truth so many times that their hearts became hardened with indifference.  They didn’t care anymore, and a few weren’t even sure that they believed it.

Even some of the counselors could feel this hardness creeping up on themselves.  They were getting tired of hearing the Gospel preached week after week, becoming complacent to this message of a hope they were no longer feeling.

It was that week that many of us started praying new kinds of prayers.  Not just ones for strength or patience or energy.  But prayers against the Enemy himself, who was intent on keeping us from seeing God.



Don’t get me wrong – the Light is present as well, and it’s transforming lives before our eyes.  Some of those kids who hear the message for the first time become captivated by it.  They don’t understand how God could always exist, or why He would choose to give up His Son, or why He loves them when they don’t deserve it…  But they accept it.  And they return home with a joy they have never experienced before.

I met an 11-year-old girl named Mani, who had been adopted from India when she was little.  She arrived at camp with no church background and very little understanding of anything Jesus-related.  But she listened.  And, little by little, it started soaking in.

It was her second attempt at the zipline.  The day before, she had been too scared to jump off the platform at the top.  This time, she remembered that one of the speakers had talked about God protecting us.  So she prayed that He would help her.  And then she jumped.



Marcus, a senior high camper, came from a small island community.  He was a fully-grown kid who was painfully reserved and soft-spoken.  I never saw him smile, and as I took his order at the camp store, I had to lean far over the counter toward him to hear what he was saying.  But as the week went on, his demeanor changed.  His counselor told us that he had accepted Christ, and the rest of us could tell.  He smiled.  Hespoke.  He began a life of walking with authority because he knew he was loved.

There have been hard weeks, but these kinds of stories make it all worth it.  With every struggle, every desert place, there has been opportunity.

Opportunity to hang out with a 13-year-old girl in the Yurt and talk about the way she sees Jesus and herself.  About her fear of not being good enough, in spite of all her efforts.  Opportunity to share about how I’m there too sometimes, but how I’ve discovered that having an actual relationship with Jesus is way better than trying to be perfect, because all our good deeds are like filthy rags to Him anyway, and He still loves us when we miss the mark.

Opportunity on the laser tag field, when one of my girl counselors who’s been sick for three weeks shares about the time she lay in a heap of misery on her bed, and God reminded her that He is her strength.  At a time when my faith had been severely lacking, I got to be encouraged and challenged by hers.

Opportunities to fail again and again and again, so I can realize that it was never about my performance in the first place, but about His power.



As camp draws to a close, please help us pray that we end well.  That God would fill us up for this last group of kids, that the kiddos would be open to what Jesus has to say to them, and that the fire would remain as both campers and counselors head back to real life.

I’ll be hitting “Lower 48” soil on August 27th.  As far as plans for September and beyond, those are in a hazy, unknown state, as usual…  (You can pray for that, too.)

What’s God been doing in your life lately?  Has He been giving you opportunities in places that seem dark?

And how can I pray for you?

The First Half

Well, we’re officially in our fifth week of camp.  Wow.  It’s hard to believe that half of the summer has gone by so quickly.  In five weeks, we’ve seen a group of 7- to 9-year-olds, 11- to 12-year-olds, two groups of middle schoolers, and a group of high schoolers come through.  Each group hikes for about a mile or two around the cove into our little home nestled in the woods, unpacks its bags, and gives itself over to a routine packed with both fun and meaning.

Some may be wondering what a typical day at Echo Ranch Bible Camp looks like, so I’ll try to break it down really quickly.  Meals are typically around 8, 12, and 5:30, and all the time in between is packed with activities that can include canoeing, archery, pedal carts, riding horses, sleeping, ziplining, laser tag, buying goodies at the camp store…  Basically, all the fun things ever.  Counselors (cabin leaders) have the opportunity to meet together every morning for a devotional and feelings-sharing time while their babies play a game outside.  There are chapel sessions in both the morning and the evening, where speakers share the messages on God, sin, Jesus, salvation, and community.

After chapel, counselors lead a devotional with their campers, going over the message and answering their (many) questions about God.  Those are always my favorite times.  I like to drag a mattress off of one of the bunks and put it on the floor of my cabin, in front of all the kids in their bunks.  Together, we break down all kinds of theological conundrums, like Well, if God created everything, then who made Him?  What is the Holy Spirit?  How do we know the Bible is true?  Have people ever seen angels?  Why did Jesus die for us if He never did anything wrong?  How can God be three different things and one thing at the same time?  What will the end of the world be like (and then all the follow-up questions in all their varieties…)  How do you get to Heaven? (One girl was super confused about songs about staircases to Heaven and highways to Hell…)  I. love. it.  There is nothing as beautiful as the faith of a child growing right in front of you.  Especially for the kids who have never heard the stories, clichés, and “Sunday School answers” before.  Especially for those who walk into the week with apathetic ears and out of it with hearts on fire for the first message that ever brought them hope in life.  That’s what we’re here for.  What I’m here for.  What God made us to do.

Equally as rewarding is the time I’ve gotten to spend bonding with the girl counselors.  A few times a week, I wander around camp to check in with them, inviting them to share the celebrations and woes and all the feelings that come with counseling 8-10 kiddos a week.  Sometimes they share other struggles, stories from their past, their dreams for the future, what God is teaching them.  Sometimes I share about my own junk, and sometimes we laugh about how screwed up we all really are, but at least we’re not alone.

A few other things we’ve laughed about over the past few weeks…

• During Bronco (11- and 12-year-olds) Camp, one boy accidentally wet his pants.  When all the other boys in his cabin started laughing at him, one of his counselors ran to the bath house, sprayed water all over his pants, ran back to the cabin, and said, “Look, I accidentally peed my pants too!”  The boys looked at him, incredulous.  “Really?!  Are you serious?”  The counselor responded, “Yeah, you’re not cool unless you’ve peed your pants!”  At that, four more of the boys let theirs run.


• They don’t get many thunderstorms here in Juneau (it has something to do with the mountains or valleys or whatever).  We’ve gotten two or three over the last couple of weeks, which have been the first that some of the kids have ever experienced.  It might as well have been the Apocalypse.  One of the counselors and I stood on the porch of one of the cabins, watching our campers around in the rain like chickens with their heads cut off and scream bloody murder every time they heard a thunder clap.  Exclamations included things like, ‘I heard the lightning!  I saw the thunder!  I thought I was going to die!’


• Every comment from Colt (7- to 9-year-olds) campers (babies) this week.  “I don’t want to dream about unicorns!”  “You know what I forgot to bring?  My magical tree that grows pink crystals!”  And then the wrath that ensued when I asked their counselors if all their babies were present.  Oops.

As we head into the second half of the camp season, please be praying for us, that we will keep going strong.  Many of the staff and counselors are exhausted, sick, and feeling burned out.  Pray for our camp speakers, that they would relay the Truth of the Gospel effectively, and that God would open up the hearts of the campers to receive it.  Pray for the campers, that they would commit to following Jesus, and that they would not lose heart when they return home, regardless of what life looks like for them there.

I love and appreciate you all.  Please let me know if there is any way I can pray for you.

This post is adapted from an e-mail update I send out to friends and family who are interested in my missions experiences.  If you would like to be added to that list, just e-mail me at reagan.taylor88@gmail.com to let me know.

So It Begins

After the dreary wind and drizzle of the first several days here in Auke Bay, Alaska, it has become unseasonably gorgeous outside.  Right now, I’m sitting in our dining hall in front of the windows that overlook the front beach of Berners Bay.  Breathtaking, snow-capped mountains tower out of the water.  Most of the counselors, having arrived a few days to a few hours ago, are hanging out on the beach, enjoying the sunshine and each other.  Thank God.  I was worried they were never going to say any words on their own.


I’ve been in Alaska for 12 days now, but it somehow feels as if it’s already been a month or more.  Although things have normalized at this point, they got off to sort of an eh start.  Coming back to Echo Ranch after 4 years feels kind of like visiting a house I used to live in.  This place is familiar – sort of – but these people aren’t.  The day after I arrived, I jumped right into the work staff groove, helping out with kitchen prep and cleanup (basically, cutting veggies, making dessert, and washing dishes 230981 times).

The first night I arrived, I was just in a funk.  I took a long walk (with my 3^rd cup of hot tea of the day in hand) around the camp, just exploring, remembering where everything was, talking to Jesus, recounting all the woes.  It was weird and lonely.  And cold.  And I just kept thinking, What the heck am I doing here?  

It wasn’t weird coming out the first time, at that phase in my life.  I was a college student and could just up and leave for the summer, no problem.  I wasn’t really concerned about my family, and I didn’t have a pending relationship back home or at school.  I wasn’t “soul tied”.  Things are so different now.  My relationships with family members have deepened, and I find myself worrying more about how things are going back home.  I think about my potential plans for the fall, feeling uncertain of what the best thing is (and we all know how I do with decision making).

I sat at the top of the zipline platform and whined and sat in all my uncertainty and my junk.  I thought about my World Race training camp, now 19 months ago, when God told Allison Johnston to honor all that we had left to come there.  I didn’t resonate with that then, but I do now.  I thought of Jesus’ disciples, who immediately abandoned everything they were doing and followed Him.  And that made me feel a little better.  I guess I had just thought that abandoning everything physically meant I could abandon it mentally/emotionally as well, and that hasn’t been the case at all.  And then of course I know I’m supposed to just trust Jesus and stop freaking out (the usual), but I don’t really know what that looks like.

I still felt kind of blah after all that, but then I kept going on my walk and saw all my special buildings, like the chapel where I had puppeteered and worshiped Jesus a zillion times, and the house where my “camp mom” lived and made me tea and told me her super crazy and detailed life story and listened to my woes, and the camp store where I would soon purchase some comfy sweatpants.  I went inside a cabin and smelled that signature firewood/stove aroma, and I was immediately transported back to the days of living with campers and attempting to get that dang fire to stay lit.  It was glorious.  And I felt refreshed.

The next couple of days were just a process of my initial social ineptness transforming to mostly social eptness.  I’ve gotten used to this “warming up” process by now and have been cutting myself a lot more slack, as far as not thinking I’m an idiot and stuff.  I started to feel like I was settling in, finding my place.

Counselors started arriving early the following week.  In spite of initial fears of counselor advising failure, I’ve been amazed at the ways I’ve been able to connect with these girls.  Many of their demeanors and life experiences are very similar to mine, both in the past and the present, and God has blessed me with so many opportunities to share some of the vast depths of my wisdom with them.  Ha.  Seriously, though, I hear their stories and think, time and time again, Yep.  I know what you’re saying.  And I’m right there with you now, or I’ve been there before.  And I’m pretty sure it’s going to be okay, because God has a knack for working stuff out.  I’m seeing the evidence of our God, who hand picked all of us out of each of our normal lives and brought us to this place, with all our baggage and failures and quirks and fears.  And, slowly but surely, I am seeing Him make us one body.

He is so good.  And, at least for now, I know I am right where I am supposed to be.

This post is adapted from an e-mail update I send out to friends and family who are interested in my missions experiences.  If you would like to be added to that list, just e-mail me at reagan.taylor88@gmail.com to let me know.

Contact Info!

I'm Here!

 

Family & Friends,

I have arrived at Echo Ranch!  Just wanted to send a quick update to let you know I’m safe and sound in the middle of nowhere.  In fact, I’m so deep in the depths that there is no phone signal, and they will soon be blocking Internet connection to pretty much anything but e-mail because it hogs all the bandwidth.  Good times.

……..

This is an excerpt from the "Missionary-ish Tales" e-news.  Read the rest here.

Here We Go

Greetings, family and friends!  Apologies on the lack of follow-through on these "weekly" updates; but don't worry, you haven't missed too much.  Here are a few cool-ish things that have happened in the past 3 months, though:

• I gained a year of life.  #25 is looking to be another adventurous one.
• Jesus had a resurrection anniversary.
• I had the opportunity to attend a Project Leader Training weekend at Adventures in Missions.  This certifies me to lead any short-term (under 1 year) trip that AIM offers, domestic and abroad.  
• I took a road trip across the mid-Eastern side of America to visit a bunch of close friends, most of whom I hadn't seen since before the World Race.  
• I started a real, live, grown-up blog!  ReaganTaylorGoes.com.  Check it out.  (Update on 6/22/14… this blog no longer exists.)

I'm only a few days away from heading out to Echo Ranch Bible Camp!  People have been asking me if I'm ready/excited, and the answer is yes.

………

This is an excerpt from the "Missionary-ish Tales" e-news.  Read the rest here.

Fear Addicts Anonymous

I am a believer in Jesus Christ who struggles with fear, and my name is Reagan.

Sometimes it’s hard not to let my fear shape my decisions.  My beliefs.  My perception of God, His will, everything.

When it comes to any decision more life-changing than do I want Chick-fil-A or City Bites for lunch? here's how the process normally goes:  I want to explore/make a decision, but I don’t feel total certainty or peace about it, and I’m not really sure if that’s what God wants anyway, and then I start believing He must not want that, because where’s the peace? but the thing really seems to make sense, and the door is wide open, and I know it would bring about good, glorifying-to-God things, and everyone who also loves Jesus is affirming it, and really all signs are a go except that peace, but I can’t pursue it because I’m not quite sure what the will of God is, so I wait and wait and the fear of making the wrong decision builds and builds until I feel sick to my stomach thinking about it and become convinced that I’m walking in disobedience by not choosing to walk away from it and I’m now inviting the discipline of the Divine.

Original photo source

I made a decision once.

I had been wrestling with this particular choice for months, primarily for those reasons.  But I was ready to put my foot down and make a decision.  I wasn’t sure it was where God was leading me.  I sort of stopped asking Him (and other people) because I didn’t want to analyze it all anymore (or be told I was wrong).  I wanted to dive in “in faith”, hoping God would reward it if it was right and make it pretty clear if it was wrong.

I kept coming across things talking about how we let our past sabotage our future, define ourselves by our patterns, and those things weren’t okay.  Yeah!  That’s what I’ve been doing!  No more of this.  It’s a new day.  I want to start new and fresh.  I’m ready.  This must be a sign from the Lord.

I still wasn’t sure sure.  I feared that my feelings and confidence would falter once the decision was made.  That all the same junk would resurface, and that I was just having a particularly good day before.  But I still wanted to try.

So I made a decision.

The result?

No.  Not now.

Original photo source

That’s the funny thing about making decisions.  Sometimes, the thing you choose after months and months of praying and over-analyzing doesn’t work out.

And that sucks.  A lot.

I wasn’t sure what to do with the pseudo-confidence I had before.  Or with the suffocating fear that had been prevalent for months, that fear I so often confused with the voice of God.  What was the truth?  Had He been saying no the whole time?  Did He say no this time to prepare me for a yes later?  Was that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach His voice?  Or was I creating that for myself out of a false belief about who He is?

But don’t forget, there’s always the Donald Miller approach of living a great story and "breaking down the door".  Was that the answer here?  Was the door being slammed in my face the will of God, or was it just a plain old closed door that could be opened a different way?  Was it supposed to present me with the opportunity to know what I actually wanted instead of floating around in la-la-I-don’t-know-anything land and motivate me to actually pursue it?

So there I stood, staring at the empty palms of my hands, thinking, What now?

Original photo source

From what I’ve gathered from being alive, I’m not the only one who wrestles with this.

And that’s a really, really important truth to grasp.  Because way too often, I act as if I am.

No one else struggles with this the way I do.  I’m just being dumb and need to make up my mind.  Jesus will eventually make it clear; I don’t need to ask anyone else’s opinion.  Besides, everyone is sick of listening to me process through all this junk anyway.

The lies and the fear frolic around, hand in hand, and my paranoia of both disobedience and insignificance envelopes me in a toxic, lonely fog.

Original photo source

It’s no wonder the most frequently given command in the Bible is “Do not fear.”  I mean, besides fearing God (not just the reverent kind) and anacondas, what good does freaking out really do?

But how do you give it up?

What the heck does it look like to trust in the Lord with all my heart? 

To not be anxious about anything?

To take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ?

I don’t have the formula for this.  I wish I did.  For myself, and for those that find themselves in the oscillating, never-ending cycle of fear and decision making.

But in the middle of my personal Crazy Land, I’ve been hearing God say things like this: Reagan!  Look!  See how I am in control and you are not.  See how much you can trust Me.  I’m taking care of you.  You are not lost.  You are not a failure.  And this is only the beginning.  I have so much for you.  I’ve got you.

What I know is that God is trustworthy.

What I know is that He is capable of accomplishing His purpose outside of our intentions.

What I know is that we were made to thrive in a community where we can be encouraged to keep fighting the good fight, finish the race, and keep the faith.

At the end of the day, that’s what it really comes down to.

I don’t have all the answers for my fellow fear addicts.  But I can extend the hand of someone who gets it.  You are not alone.  And together -- guided by the all-surpassing grace of the God who is our Shepherd -- we can probably work through some of that junk that would otherwise keep us from doing anything at all.

Because who can stay out of Crazy Land all by themselves?  Really?

Original photo source

My People

The rain poured heavily outside as we sat cozily inside her kitchen.  A sharp contrast to the cold, dreary, wet outdoors, the room was warm and colorful, rich with an ambiance that simply made you feel at home.  As I relaxed comfortably at the table with my legs propped up on the chair in front of me, my friend spoke of her life’s goings on:  adjusting after transition, learning a new role, and moving into the future.  I soaked in each second, but I’m not sure how well I actually listened.  All I could do was look at my friend and grieve for the time to come – for what would no longer be the same.  Not just for her.  For all of us.

Over the past seven or so years, I’ve acquired a handful of “worlds” that have gifted me with some of my favorite people.  Olivet Nazarene University:  seven girls who went from college floormates, to college roommates, to real life best friends.  Anderson, IN:  people with whom I worked, lived, watched The Bachelor, and learned to be vulnerable.  The World Race:  those traipsed across the planet alongside me, saw me at my best and my worst, and encouraged me to just be.  And then all the “miscellaneous-es” who changed my life along the way.

It had been over a year since I had seen many of them; it felt like both yesterday and forever ago.  It wasn’t that hard to leave.  It was time.  But I also knew I would be coming back to visit “sometime after the Race,” so really, it wasn't like I would be gone for good.

After seemingly countless hours of car time, I finally made the roundtrip across the mid-eastern side of the country to find my people once again.

There has been a great deal of surprise and pain in my life over these last few weeks, and I found myself emotionally whoring myself out to these people, my people, who have deeply known my heart at one time or another.  We had shared stories of failed relationships.  We had held each other during heartache.  We had counseled each other through difficult decisions.  And we had simply listened when answers seemed elusive—an act that was often more significant than the answers themselves.  Confiding in them once again felt simultaneously refreshing and completely exhausting, and the retelling of the trials and tribulations never lessened the pain.  But there was a freedom there.  An affirmation that were meant for community, bearing one another’s burdens, and not navigating life on our own.  There is healing out in the open.  Out in the light.  Maybe it has something to do with being fully known and loved anyway.

Chalk writing on wall by Kylee

It’s times like these when I want to gather those I love into my arms and stick them into my bright blue Gregory Deva 70-liter backpack so I can take them with me wherever I go.  Some of them might have to share sides of the packing cubes, because honestly, I’m running out of compartments.

Who can say that they have even one community where they are always loved, accepted, and treated with utmost grace?

My heart aches with loneliness, loss.  But I know, too, that I can’t walk away without feeling unbelievably blessed.

The Next Step

As I sat on an outdoor stage in the middle of some obscure village in India, I listened to my squad leader Rachel preach the Gospel to the large group of men, women, and children gathered in front of us.  

I sat, and I reflected.  I thought about how crazy this whole thing was:  ten Americans randomly showing up in a tuk-tuk, singing English songs to little Indian babies, being forced to sit in chairs six feet above the locals, praying over people who had no idea what we were saying.  It all felt a little ridiculous.  And, really, it was.

India (unlike every other month) was a month of processing for me.  Over the last couple of weeks--or the last year, really--I observed how my teammates seemed to thrive at everything I really didn't like.  Specifically, anything that had to do with small children.  Especially if they knew no more than two words of English and just wanted to stare and wave at you.  I was over it.  I had made a list of all the things I pretty much sucked at.  And then I wallowed in all my spiritual failure.

I had been trying to figure it out for awhile.  Wondering why it seemed like everyone else has the same talents, except for me.  Asking God what the heck "my calling" was, whatever that means.

But, as I listened to Rachel, and I thought some more, I realized this is the stuff I'm passionate about.  

I'm passionate about the Gospel.
I'm passionate about sharing it with those who have never heard it or maybe just forgot what it meant.
I'm passionate about people getting it.

And that's super cool.

But, God, I wondered, How will I ever get to do something like this back in the States?  

And then He reminded me where I had done it before.  A place where I had grown and taught and loved years ago.  But, since then, I had never felt like it was the right time to go back.  

Until now.

This summer, I will be returning to Juneau, Alaska, to serve as a camp counselor at Echo Ranch Bible Camp.  ERBC offers weeklong camps to nearly 1,000 kids each summer that belong to four different age groups:  7-9, 10-11, 12-14, and high schoolers.  Each week, the kids have the option to participate in all kinds of fun stuff, including ziplining, canoeing, horseback riding, put-putt…  And then, of course, the stuff that really matters, like chapel services, cabin devotions, and Jesus conversations around the campfire.
 

 
I was a counselor there during the summer of 2009, and it was one of the best and hardest things I’ve ever experienced.  After only two days of counseling my first group of kids, I was done.  I sat bawling in my cabin, reeling with the fact that I would eventually have to let these kids go home.  I wouldn’t be able to shield them from all the woes of the world, the abuse some of them would experience, the lies they would hear…  I wouldn’t be able to remind them of the Truth, of the God who loves them, of the things that would keep them going. 

I would have to trust their Creator with those things instead. 

I would learn to trust Him again and again and again when I felt like my body, mind, and soul couldn’t function anymore, when "I couldn’t possibly be more exhausted than I am right now"; when I felt completely alone; when I knew I didn’t have all the answers I thought I had.  I would see Him work miracles, like provide the hands to actually make the camp run when we were short-staffed, the male counselors to lead those rowdy boys when there never seemed to be enough, and the friends I needed to encourage me at all the right times.  It was so hard.  But it was so good.
 
More important than my experience, though, is that those kids learned the Gospel.  That was the focus of the whole camp.  They may have shown up with zero knowledge or only a faint idea, but they left hearing it again and again.  They heard, they received, and they were changed.  Maybe only for a week…  Most of us know how those things go.  But the seed was planted.  And that’s all we could do.  I loved getting to hear every time a kid decided to give their lives to Jesus.  To see their eyes light up when they finally got it.  To be a part of what God decided to awaken in them.  It was beautiful.
 

 
This is my passion.  Sharing the Gospel.  Teaching the Truth.  Seeing people get it.  Sitting at that prayer meeting in India, I realized God was inviting me to go back to Alaska and do it again.  I always figured I’d go back one of these days…  And now, I am.
 
As we real missionaries and pretend missionaries do, I threw together a little fundraising page for the $1500ish I’ll need for this summer.  That money will cover airfare, food, and housing.  If you’re interested in partnering with me in this ministry, you can go here.  You be the hands; I'll be the feet, remember?
 
If you’re interested in reading any of my stories from my experience in 2009, there’s a blog for that too! 

Those kids' lives weren't the only ones changed that summer.

Mine world was rocked, too.

And I can't wait for it to happen again.

Re[ag]-Entry

It’s happened.  The frenzy and reality that is re-entry has, after 11 months, finally occurred.
 
I arrived at Will Rogers International Airport to 20 smiling faces I hadn’t seen in nearly a year.  Faces who got merely a glimpse of what I had been through over those 11 months.  Faces I hadn’t seen since before… everything.
 

 
My mom ran up to me with tears streaming down her face.  She threw her arms around my neck. 
 
“Are you happy to see me?” I asked with a quiet laugh.
 
I felt the need to perform.  To entertain.  To affirm everyone in my appreciation of their presence at my arrival. 
 
“Thank you so much for coming!  Hi!  So good to see you!  Thank you so much…” 
 
I didn’t know what to feel.  I wasn’t excited, but I wasn’t sad.  I just was. 
 
I tried not to have expectations.  I had heard all kinds of World Race re-entry experiences of nobody understanding them or knowing what to ask or how to be.  I figured that would be the case for myself as well.
 
Family members asked a few questions about things I had seen or eaten or things like that.  In the car, few questions were asked.  I talked about traffic in India after someone cut off our suburban.  When we got home, we ate dinner.  I shared a few pictures.  And then we watched a lot of videos of our pets.
 
I had a long and intimate conversation with my sister that night.  I felt connected.  I felt alive. I felt inspiring.   I felt like I really had changed.
 
More conversations followed over the next few weeks.  I was encouraged.  I was surprised.  I cocked my head in wonder at things about which I saw others get irritated.
 
Okay, plans didn’t work out the way we had scheduled.  It’s okay.  We’ll just do this instead.
 
Okay, I might have to wait an hour instead of five minutes.  It’s okay.  I’ll just find something to do in the meantime.
 
I wasn’t trying to go all when I was a kid, I walked to school barefoot, in the snow, uphill both ways on anyone.  But as I observed, I thought about things that were worse than not getting an omelet for breakfast or an immediate ride home.  Things like Mozambican women having to mash up corn all day to make porridge for every meal or our squad having to wait eight hours for a big enough bus to Swaziland.  And really, still, those things didn’t matter all that much.
 

 

 
But, as I lounged on the living room couch or drank coffee in a Panera Bread booth or watched Skyfall in a comfortable, cushioned seat… as I had honest conversations with people who no more understood my experience than I fully understood theirs…
 
I noticed things that did matter.
 
Things like settling for mediocre relationships, spiritual walks, and purposes in life.
               being entertained by stories about abandonment, revenge, and abuse.
               looking for value in people
                                          food
                                          appearance
                                          drugs
                                          money
                                          performance…
 
Things like 20 elementary-aged kids being shot and killed. 
Things like your co-workers who, having been caught up in a cycle of less-than-perfect decisions, are now scraping to get by.
Things like shutting God out based on false delusions of who He actually is.
Things that wreck us. 
 
I sit across the table from these stories and yearn.  I yearn for their storytellers to take a step back and examine the direction of their lives.
 
Is this choice, this thing you can’t seem to live without, this thing that has you transfixed…  Is it taking you somewhere you want to end up, or not? 
 
When you look at the big picture, is this really working for you?
 
There are things that matter.
 
And there are things that don’t.
 
And then there are things that should matter.
 

 
But something weird has happened over the course of the last 79 days.  Something I feared but didn’t really expect.  Because I had been wrecked.  Figured out how to live with open hands, not fists clenched around my ideals and ideas of pretend American dreams.
 
I’ve slowly found myself migrating to the other side of the table.
 
I’ve become discouraged, defeated, heart riddled with anxiety and mind bogged down by all that I do not know.
 
I’ve forgotten what it’s like to breathe.  To embrace each moment infused with the beauty and glory of the God who gave it to me.  As I lie on the floor and cry out to God in the midst of the confusion and unknown, I ask Him questions like, ‘What do you want me to do?  Are you really telling me to do ______ a year from now?’  Which is funny, because God usually gives us the next step, not the next five.
 
I’ve curled up on the sofa of a shrink’s office and recounted the woes of my past and present.  I’ve sat in a car with my best friend and tried to predict my future.  I’ve lain in bed and cried with my face buried in a pillow.
 
And when I look at the big picture, I realize that this isn’t really working for me, either.
 
And then I realize that, through it all, God’s been saying the same thing over
and over
and over.
 
Trust Me.
Cling to Me.
Walk in the Light.
You don’t know the next step.  But I do.
Stop obsessing over everything else.  Fix your eyes on Me.
 
And this makes sense, because I’ve done it before.  When I’ve stopped focusing on all the crap that is rigged for failure anyway and started seeking Him, things just kind of fall into place.  Not always right away.  Not usually in the way I expect or desire.  But they do.  Eventually, they do.
 

 
The things that don’t matter fade away.  The things that do, the things that should matter, those come into focus.  Because all those things are Him.