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