I own a couch.

So here’s the thing. I now own a couch. I didn’t want one. I didn’t ask for one. But I have one now. It’s mocha brown (sounds fancier than just brown) with some fun pillows. My mom and I sat and rolled on couches a few months ago in the furniture store to find THE couch. I tried to tell her I didn’t need it. She and my dad blessed me with it anyways. It’s a nice couch. But it feels so permanent.

The entire reentry into your own culture is one of those most bizarre experiences. You go through weird feelings and freak out moments over couches and iphones (these situations may or may not be referring to real life instances). You don’t really know where you fit. You’ve seen the world. You’ve seen how the rest of the world is still never quite as materialistic as Americans. You’ve seen a level of suffering that makes you wonder why you got so lucky. All the while you become an outsider to your old world without you getting the memo. Americans seem so silly to me at times, and yet I know and can follow their way of thinking. I also know that I’m so silly at times.

As I readied myself to come home for my rest period and surgery, I knew two things were facts. I did not want to move to Fayetteville (been there, done that), and I did not want to work for a church(I hear it’s a tough job). So I tried to leave the country again. I went to Haiti with full intentions of moving there. Packing up my things. Leaving this world of technology and stuff. Unplugging. Sweating. Hard work. Tears. Hungry babies. Raw life on life ministry in poverty. I was ready for it all. I knew I could do it. But then, strangely enough, God closed that door. I know why, and sometimes I don’t know why, but it left me with a new decision to make. A job had been offered to me before I went to Haiti. It included two things: 1)move to Fayetteville 2) work for the church I went to in college

HA! The joke’s on me, right? When the job was proposed to me, I could imagine myself doing college ministry. It seemed too easy. It seemed effortless. Not hard enough. Not getting deep enough in the trenches. In spite of all of my silly, know-it-all presumptions about my next big step, I felt confident that Haiti was a closed door. The college ministry door swung wide open and a pathway cleared. A step where I could still be of service to my God. A step that didn’t require much of me physically, which in reality is a huge blessing still. A step that in many ways would extend my rest. A step of faith to stay when all I want to do is go.

So here I am. Fayetteville, Arkansas. Women’s collegiate ministry. I have found the trenches to be deep, dirty, and full of muck. I have found the college students ready for the Gospel to rock their worlds. I have been overwhelmed and amazed at their open arms to me. God has been faithful to show me internationals I can love and embrace in the here and now.  I have been blessed. Period. No question about it. And yet I’m always looking forward. My heart still beats to the nations. 

As I watch my friends return to serve overseas(with a ting of jealousy might I add), I have made a decision. God willing I will be part of the raising up of an army of college students in northwest Arkansas that will go to the world. Their impact for the Gospel WILL BE FELT in this earth and in the heavens. God ‘s spirit is heavy on them, and they want to see God’s love transform. God willing I will serve my heart out and cherish this time He has set before me. It’s still very uncertain to me, and in the back of my mind I wonder why He has me here and for how long. As my mom says, the cloud has shifted here, but it has yet to move again.

So like the Israelites I’ll follow the cloud by day and the fire by night. My God is an all consuming fire. I can trust Him. Even when I think I know it all, He must get a giggle in every now and then watching me “figure out” my life.  So much for all of my plans!

So there it is. I have a couch in my life. I’ve dedicated it to the service of the Lord. Maybe you just laughed but no, really. It’s the only way I could handle it being in my life. I have promised to use it for friends to sleep on when passing through. I have promised to have conversations on it that glorify the Lord. And last but not least, I have promised to not love it, and I’ll leave it if necessary whenever God calls me to the next place or next step. But for now He has me here. Even though I don't have much to offer I feel confident He will use this broken soul for His glory. The miracle of it all is that He's done it before.

So that couch is not so permanent after all. Whew, I can breathe! But I must remember how my God is eternal and everlasting. My citizenship is permanent in Christ. No couch can slow me down or hold me down!

Hallelujah. Amen. Pray for me as I battle in the trenches with college students. They are truly warriors.

Taryn

Haitian Hospital Hustle

I was invited to go with Kristi on a Port run. Kristi will soon be working for another orphanage in Montrouis where there are children with physical needs and disabilities. Here I was with Kristi, Eddy, and three boys in the back seat of a large truck on our way to the hospital. Eddy is this tall, strong Haitian man who has a powerful story of being lost and redeemed by the blood of Christ. He directed Kristi through Cite Soleil. A name that means Sun City, but all I saw around me was a city of darkness. I couldn’t help but laugh a little at Eddy’s semi-absurd comments as we passed through the dangerous neighborhoods. Eddy kept saying to us, “don’t come here alone, but since you are with me we’ll be okay. White and wealthy Haitians don’t come through here.” I realized quickly if someone wanted to take down the white people (Kristi and myself) they could. One Haitian couldn’t stop that. In the midst of this feasible danger, I found that I had no fear.

The devastation of humanity was consuming and before me. The river of white Styrofoam garbage that made me question whether or not there was even water underneath it all. The mounds of dirty cloth that may have once resembled a shirt or pair of pants spilling over the edges into the Styrofoam white river. Trash. Dirt. People. Slums. Shanties. Poverty. Gangs. Prostitutes. Emptiness. A place that needs Christ.

I found myself chuckling again as we passed the market that Eddy told us was also too dangerous for a white person. I saw piles of clothes that comprised one side of the market. I learned these were clothes from donations after the earthquake or even before. What entrepreneurs! Gather up donated clothing and sell it to generate revenue. I don’t blame them for this, and in a strange way commend their initiative of creating a market to produce income for needs to be met.

Reality sets in when your babies are hungry or even if you only care for yourself and your basic needs aren’t being met. I found this of TOMS shoes as well. You can buy them in markets in Haiti even though they have writing, in English mind you, that clearly states that they are not to be resold. I would break the “rules” too if my baby was hungry (and I didn’t speak English because it wouldn’t be my native tongue, so of course I can’t read the “rules”) and there was a choice between rice and a pair of shoes. So goodbye, TOMS. Hello rice. And not that there aren’t children who are actually using those shoes and getting use out of them, but sometimes our help doesn’t exactly accomplish what we think it will.

It’s 8 a.m. and the national anthem comes on the radio. I find that the anthem plays at the same time every day. I guess there’s some national pride but when I asked the boys if they could sing their anthem, they kind of laughed and ignored me. So I sang the only song I know in Creole and their faces light up and they can’t help but to sing with me. I find this song to be a constant bridge to the people because it appears all the Haitians know it. I did not meet a Haitian who didn’t know this Christian melody. My heart lifted to see how the tune moved these boys, and I knew that somehow a barrier was down between us.

After weaving through the city, we finally arrive at the hospital to wait in a long line where they are putting people in order to see the doctors for checkups. I look down at Bijoey, one of the boys who had surgery because he has club feet. He’s 7 years old. He’s in a wheelchair. He’s a beautiful boy who makes God smile. He’s been through a lot of pain in his short life. He’s doesn’t have a mommy or a daddy to sit by him at the hospital. And it hits me. It hits me hard. I look at him and see him as he is. A little boy. A baby really. So I put out my hand and he takes it, and we spend the majority of the hospital visit like that. Hand in hand. Because he truly is only a baby. And babies need to know that they are not alone.

They take Bijoey back to cut off his casts and then take him in again to recasts his legs. I have never in my short 26 years heard a child yell like he did. Eddy and I did our best to hold him down and he would yell to Eddy in Creole that he wanted me to hold his hand tighter. After having personally experienced bilateral leg injuries, I can only imagine the pain he felt. The casting heats up and is an uncomfortable sensation. It’s scary. Once you’ve already been through so much pain, even the least amount of discomfort is too much to bear. So he did what scared children do best. He screamed. Then it was finally over. The tears ran down his sweet little brown face. I held back my own. We kept holding hands.

As we waited some more, one of the 17 year old boys, Larry, and I practiced my numbers in Creole. A crowd was attracted to the scene immediately. Before I knew it several people were correcting my Creole and laughing. What a funny white person I must have been with my pitiful attempt at saying these foreign words with sounds that are not included in English! I was amazed at how few white people I saw overall, but in the hospital there were by far more white people than anywhere else in the city. A sea of black and brown faces met you everywhere. I like that.

Something weird always happens in these situations. I may have said it before, but I basically thought I was black and I was certain that my Creole was almost perfect. I find that if my communication is lacking verbally, smiles, hugs, hand holds, funny faces to solicit smiles, pats on the back, or even whistling or the singing of any song is enough to close any gap.

Praise the Lord that these boys are not left alone or are not abandoned. They have an American mother who lives in Haiti and runs the orphanage where they live. She just wasn’t there because she was back in the States raising funds for her work. Because I know someone is already there engaging in the struggle, I could leave my precious little 7 year old knowing that he is loved, fed, and more importantly told about Christ. Bijoey will walk again because of the surgery, but with anything it will take time.

We leave to go back after the boys finish up. It’s been a full day, and my heart is tired, but full of joy. I can’t believe that God allowed me to spend my day serving this little guy by just being there for him and letting him know that someone loves him. All it took was a hand hold.

My God loves those who are left behind by the world. He is so good.
Taryn

You Been to Haiti Before?

I land on the ground and it's like I’ve woken up out of a deep sleep. Electricity starts to run through my body and I feel alive, almost like I’m really breathing for the first time. For whatever reason, God has made me this way. Being in another culture excites me more than anything else, and I ponder which direction He is leading me. I step out of the plane in Port au Prince and immediately feel the humidity in the air. Yes, I expected this. Humidity is nothing if you are an Arkansan, so I smiled knowing that the heat is nothing. I go through customs and am surprised by the faces I see. Some of the Haitians have honey colored or very light colored eyes while others have black eyes. I count how many white people I can see. A dozen or so. But somehow I don’t see my color. I’m aware of the differences among everyone else, but wherever I am I just assume I’m the same color as the people of the country I’m in. I also assume that I can speak Creole, which is completely inaccurate.

I walk outside into the sea of coal black faces and look for someone holding a piece of paper with my name. I walk through nonchalantly telling people “no thank you” to their help despite their persistence and meander until I find someone holding a piece of paper with my name. There it is. Taryn Blocker Canaan Orphanage The Haitian holding the piece of paper leads me to another man, Pastor Henri. Then Henri sends me back in to find Sister Gladys because we were actually on the same flight from Miami. Who knew? I go in, introduce myself to her, retrieve her, and off we go.

“You have been to Haiti before?” Sister Gladys asked almost a statement but with a hint of a question in there as we finished our hectic exit out of the airport. It was evident that Pastor Henri (PH) and Sister Gladys (SG) hadn’t seen each other in over a week by the giddiness they were displaying in talking with one another. I followed close to their side and took it all in.

“No, I haven’t been here before. This is my first time” I replied.
“Ah, you seem too comfortable. You travel a lot?”

I laugh and told her how I had been able to travel quite a bit in my life. SG nodded her head with the acknowledgement of why I wasn’t overwhelmed. Then I realize that once you’ve seen 3rd world (or the politically correct term of a “developing nation”), you can decently gauge what to expect. You will never completely know everything, so you sit back, follow the lead of those around you. And don’t you dare freak out.

I soak in this world that has been on my heart for the past 3 years. I had considered moving to Haiti the summer of 2009, before I went to my interview that led me down my winding trail to Spain. But here I finally was. To see it for myself and consider if this could be where God would lead me next. After listening to SG and PH catch up we talked some and SG asked me my age. FYI, I look younger than my age. And I thank you for that, SG. As I looked behind us at the tap tap ( a taxi/truck with people piled on/risking their lives for the sake of transportation) I caught the eye of a woman my age. I smiled and she nodded her head at me with a bright smile. This was my official welcome to Haiti.

I asked SG and PH about their ministry and their life work. How it started. How long they had been married. Then I asked how many children were at Canaan now. The response PH gave me was such a reminder that I am an American and I still live with an American mindset. PH told me that others at Canaan know how many children there are, but God told them to stop counting long ago. I responded with an amen, for as Americans we are way into the numbers of it all.

PH is a Haitian, but I tried to figure out his heritage since he is white with light eyes. After some investigation I came to discover that his grandfather was a German who married a Haitian. PH even sometimes struggles with proving to Haitians that he is Haitian! The conversation goes that he can’t be Haitian because he is white, and he argues with them that he has been in Haiti his entire life, of course he is Haitian. Eventually he wins the argument with whoever questions his nationality. For he is truly Haitian. I guess my immigrant investigation training in Spain helped me put together the puzzle pieces.

About an hour and a half later, we arrive at Canaan in Montrouis. A place like the biblical Canaan. Rocky soil that has been nurtured, watered, and loved. This soil is not only the composition of the terrain but a place that once served as a rehab center for drug addicts and now is a refuge for children . A place of trees and shade where one can rest before going out into the deforestation surrounding it. The rocky soil still exists as a reminder that the work is never finished.

Haiti has yet to have a functioning economy because of its poverty, lack of resources, and political corruption. Desperation is everywhere. As it is Haiti will forever be a black hole of resources if an economy is never created. Once again I find myself engrossed by this problem of a self sustaining society YET I believe Christ is first in foremost in the formula for what they really need. For man does not live on bread alone. And who am I really kidding? Christ is first and foremost in what I need, even though I have more than enough of the other "stuff". So I gathered this new information. Stored it in my mind. This was my introduction to Haiti. And there is more to tell. I have yet to tell you of the hospital run to Port, how to get something notarized, my breaking point, and how God held my hand through it all.

End of Installment 1. Stay tuned.

In the Midst of Legends

I have these friends. And I swear to you that they will change the world. I looked around myself and found that I was not only with some of the dearest friends I'll make on this earth, but in fact I was in the midst of legends.

She has these bright blue, innocent eyes that conceal a maturity in life that I doubt few will ever reach. Her intelligence and quick wit flow from her mouth with a comfort and ease that you may miss if you aren't sitting close enough to hear. She went to a land where she was all alone and clearly an outsider. One of the things I remember the most after meeting her was the sweetness of her singing voice. While she was overseas she led people to Christ and even secretly baptized a new believer in a public swimming pool. She's brave and keeps moving through life with a grace that conceals all that covert cleverness. She goes where people won't. She will change the world. She will do so in the name of Christ.

She has a face that could undoubtedly light up the dark side of the moon. I've never quite seen someone smile the amount that she does or as beautifully. She exudes Christ and radiated him while she lived in a dark jungle of this world. This joyful spirit has hands that help and heal. Hands that seek out the untouchables, so that she can tell them of a God who came to this earth to love them. Because of her love of medicine and life she regularly looked for opportunities to deliver babies. Standing several feet taller than the people around her, she trekked out into the thick jungle looking for the spiritually lost with her equally amazing teammate. She will change the world. She will do so in the name of Christ.

He has one of those flashing grins that would convince anyone that he should host his own TV show. He doesn't let on to half of his secrets or random talents. He may or may not have learned Morse code for the fun of it to communicate with a friend through the ceiling AND randomly sounded it out as he translated the code for his friends one evening. He's a leader who points people to his Savior. A man who would give up his salvation for his friend overseas who has yet to accept Christ. He has been to the dark places where bombs go off and the certainty of safety and life have to be an afterthought so it doesn't consume you or force you into a corner of fear. He will change the world. He will do so in the name of Christ.

These are the legendary Christians who must remain nameless because of where they have been and where they will go. They are just a few of the many legends I know in the States and around the world who take up their cross to follow the One who saved us all, and they passionately seek Christ in all they do. They are in the ranks of the spiritual giants that we wish we could be like. And if you are ever looking for a strong name for one of your babies, just ask me. These friends are worthy of a namesake because of how they live life and the wake they will send out in the world. Truly a ripple affect that will bring more to knowing Christ and will mean more people spending eternity in heaven.

They are the friends who I can share thoughts with about being overseas, and they understand the desire. They are men and women who inspire, who challenge, and who live by the Word. They are my heroes. So when I found myself in their midst, I was amazed. Amazed at how God uses us, broken vessels, and turns us into legends whose life stories point to the cross and the empty tomb. Thank you guys for reminding me of our purpose and that as a legend it's okay to be a little (or a lot) crazy because sometimes that's what it takes to go into this dark, empty world.

These legends are totally aliens and I respect and love them for it. Hallelujah. Amen. I pray the Lord sends them out once again.

A Strange, Weirdo Alien

I was at therapy and noticed something different. Teenagers were there. Now this may not sound too strange to you except for the fact that I go to therapy in the morning, so school age kids aren't there until the afternoon. I'm the youngest patient there by who knows how many years, so it was a little strange to see young faces. As it turns out the teens were the children of my therapist out of school for winter break. I found out that the girl just had turned thirteen that day. On top of that she was reading Harry Potter, so I struck up a convo with her. After we hit the HP highlights we talked about other things. Like what usually happens when someone first meets me at therapy, she asked me why I was there and why I had scars on my knees. I gave her a quick answer of what happened (which actually never ends up being that short of a response because my lack of giving info leads to even more questioning). What's even more awesome is that I tell my story at least once a week, and sometimes to the same person who forgets that they've already asked me exactly what has happened.

As we continued talking, we got into the nitty gritty of the 7th grade world that she lives in. We talked about how kids can be mean, and I tried to give solid advice about how 7th grade wouldn't last forever. It's best to stay away from the mean girls and to be nice to everyone. She informed me that she does her best to stay away from "drama", and I think I told her a funny story or two about my 7th grade awkward self. Later we jumped rope together because it is lovely exercise for all involved. After awhile she confided in me that sometimes kids are mean to her.

She has had several hip operations and has a significant limp. She then went on to say how it doesn't bother her as much anymore when kids say things, but when she was younger she used to think she was an alien because of how different she was from everyone else. Then she smiled, telling me that she realizes now how silly that was. She's not an alien just because she limps. And besides, most people are used to it by now. When I asked her if she has much pain, in her vibrant teenage self she said, "No, not at all! That's kind of the crazy thing. It doesn't hurt." She's wearing a thick skin because of what she's been through, and I silently prayed for her. That one day she will have an impact on people for Christ. I felt like I walked away not telling her the entire truth about myself, even though we chatted about so much. Little did she know that even though she's not an alien, I'm a bona fide  alien. Truly a stranger in this land.

I remember as a girl reading the passages in the Bible calling believers aliens, and I found this so fascinating. I loved space, I even have a favorite planet. Saturn because of the rings, duh. So the very thought of being an alien excited me. One time I even asked someone about it, and they explained it to me. We are not of this world. This is temporary. We aren't made for this fallen world. I am an alien. This has become even more of my identity since being home. I've gotten so weird. My dearest friends have assured that I was weird before (and thanks so much for that affirmation of being strange), but now it seems even more evident to me.

I wake up desiring purpose. A purpose with the Gospel wrapped around it tightly. I find myself stumbling and falling over my world here. Unsure of myself, and finding everything so foreign even though it should be so familiar. I express this to people and share the work going on around the world and how I want to live that life. I get the same look from people. It's always a little funny to me waiting for "the look." The one where I know what will be said shortly after: "isn't that dangerous? why overseas? you must love the adventure. maybe that's good and all, but what if you have a family?" And the list goes along those lines. I'm never offended. I just feel even more like an alien. One who doesn't desire the grind of life in the States. The one who doesn't want a white picket fence house with a mortgage and a dog. I'm NOT saying those things are wrong, I just don't want anything to do with that. The thought of that life scares me actually, because I see the value in some other things. And I have an astonishing fear of apathy setting in.

I'm constantly getting myself in trouble at church too. The size of church is so big compared to overseas. Not that the same great people and same not so great people don't exist in churches around the world. The volume is just overwhelming. A few weeks ago I went to church with some of my friends, who are amazing Godly friends, and I just couldn't focus. I found myself in a "worship experience" where the lights were bright (and changing colors), with a stage, stadium seating, with hundreds of people. I couldn't quite get myself in the worship mode. Maybe it's because worship isn't a mode. It isn't a song. It's our lifestyle. Don't get me wrong, once again. I know the hearts of some of the people that go to this church. They are good hearts. Hearts that love and serve the Lord. But, America is sure giving me a run for my money as far as understanding it all.

I found myself overwhelmed, out of whack, and when the sermon started I found myself looking at a sermon outline. The last time I had an outline in an academic setting, I was in middle school. I won't say any more to that. So that's when I checked out, and probably started writing this blog. The words come to me but if I don't capture them in that moment they flee, so I must pin them down. My mind wandered to my time in Spain, and my time in recovery. Speaking of which, I found myself ticked off that stairs are not so great for me. Choppy movements and without a hand rail I might fall down. Bitterness started settling in until...

A sudden a jerky movement caught my attention. A man, with what looked like a backwards walker, came into the service late. He looked around for a seat, but stayed back where he was. Another man turned around and saw him, got up, and left his seat for the man. Ah! A breath of fresh air. And a slap in the face that stairs are so much harder for this man than they will ever be for me. He couldn't have made it up the stadium seating if he wanted to. Thanks for the humility, Lord. Even if you must slap me over the head with it.

I continue to soak in everything around me. The American. The American hipster. The American with the white tennis shoes and blue jeans. The American socialite. The American teen. The American senior citizen. All put together in their own way. Making their own statements. Then I started to plan my escape from this place. From the States. From this world that I should know, but I find myself so uncomfortable in. Where could I go? How could I help somewhere?

I had a conversation with a friend one night several months ago. It was in the midst of a disagreement where we actually agreed for the most part. My friend looked at me and said that we have to have a level of apathy towards things because there's only so much we can do. We can't change the world and and fix it all. It took me awhile to process what he said and to mull it over. I finalized what I thought later on. I disagree with him. I can't be apathetic. Even if my lack of apathy looks like a simple prayer, I can't just ignore things so that I can feel better about myself or not worry myself with those things. This is where I find myself in life. I can't stand by and not look anymore. I crave the rawness of it all. Maybe after I get a big bite of it, I'll feel differently. Maybe not. I just find myself wanting to look more and more like Jesus and he didn't have an ounce of apathy in him. I find myself looking down at my clothes, all put together in church on Sunday, and wondering if I look like my Christ at all. Heart, mind, soul, and on the outside. Oh, such a mess I am.

So this is where I am. Waiting oh so impatiently for the big something that I need. Waiting and wondering if God remembers little ole me. Willing to be used by him. Begging him to not land me here, but unfortunately that's exactly where I am now. Waiting is just about to kill me. Life here is about to kill me. Which may sound so silly and dramatic considering I wasn't in the middle of Africa for the past year and a half. Nonetheless, I'm working on my faith. It's so small right now, and I have so many doubts about the purpose in me being here right now. Torture is an accurate word. I know what I want, I'm just not sure how to obtain it or accomplish it. Surely it's coming. Right? Am I the only one who's probably crazy? I sure hope not. La Biblia talks about this too,

"If we are “out of our mind,” as some say, it is for God; if we are in our right mind, it is for you. For Christ’s love compels us, because we are convinced that one died for all, and therefore all died. And he died for all, that those who live should no longer live for themselves but for him who died for them and was raised again"
2 Corinthians 5:13-15

So this is what drives me mad. The Gospel. The world's need for the Gospel. How I am to respond since I am young with all of the opportunities in the world in front of me. Not to mention being an educated individual. Not to mention EVERYTHING else that the Lord has given me. I challenge myself in the fog of these thoughts I have. I challenge myself to not forget my first love in the hustle of the work to get done around the world. But I think it is my love for my God that fuels me. The desire to see others know him. The desire to see others feel his healing touch. The world is broken. Only he can fix it. And I want to be in on the action because I've enlisted to be a warrior for him. To be made for something and not being able to do it is like taking air away. I'm trying to steady my breathing, but at times I feel as though I'm gasping. Gasping for him. Gasping to be part of his plan. Maybe I'm just a silly girl. Or maybe I'm just the weirdest alien you've ever come across. Welcome to my crazy thoughts. We shall see where this all goes...

I sure hope you're an alien,
Taryn