my post Africa Mercy life thoughts are http://megsthoughtsandcolors.blogspot.com/
God Bless!! Thanks for reading about my Mercy Ship experiences!
love, meg
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
on being home
It's hard to believe I have been in the beautiful United States of America for an entire week. Life is so weird.
No really, it's a rather strange phenomenon.
The weather in Bucks County has been unseasonably beautiful and I have been doing my best to take advantage of my lush, green backyard, and the beautiful canopy of twinkling lights provided by fresh air fireflies which transform the backyard every night into a fairytale sort of world.
The other night I was sitting on my patio thinking. i realized two weeks before I had been sitting on a port in Monrovia, Liberia. Enjoying the company of my ship friends, the heat of Liberia, and a hazy sunset. A week later, I was wearing a sweater and jeans, sitting in a cafe in London. A week later I was pretending to play guitar in my back yard with a cup of coffee. Three completely different scenarios all found in real life. It makes me wonder what reality is.
Reality is a strange idea. I wonder, what is it really? Is reality owning a house and a car? Is it having a family? Is it finding security? Is it following a life plan? Is it exploring the world? Is it helping somebody? Is it pursuing your dreams? Does it have a specific feel and taste?
Paul says
"For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known."
Jesus is reality. He is the only constant. He is loves tangible full expression. The metric of completion. The grade of the tangible.
We now live in a false reality. The goals and dreams; the plans and commitments; the houses and cars; the families and friends; the good deeds and sacrifices; they are dim fleeting shadows next to Christ.
Which brings such freedom. We can't produce reality. We live in the shadow lands. We build air castles. But the Spirit of God can and wants to produce an eternal reality while we live and breath and hope and dream and fall in our temporal state. The Spirit wants to produce in our hearts and minds that which rust cannot destroy and thieves cannot break in and steal.
Galatians 5:22
But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, long suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.
Eternity can be born from our lives at anytime or moment. It doesn't matter what we are doing, where we are living or going, who we are with, or what dreams are in our heads.
At any time, any place, any moment, we can learn to love. We can radiate joy. We can experience peace. We can become long suffering. We can exude gentleness. We can walk in faith. We can live in the light. We can effect our eternity. We don't need to live in the shadows.
I don't claim to live in the Spirit but I would like to. I want God to create and define a new reality in my life that is defined by eternal things rather then temporal.
I suppose life is for learning.
No really, it's a rather strange phenomenon.
The weather in Bucks County has been unseasonably beautiful and I have been doing my best to take advantage of my lush, green backyard, and the beautiful canopy of twinkling lights provided by fresh air fireflies which transform the backyard every night into a fairytale sort of world.
The other night I was sitting on my patio thinking. i realized two weeks before I had been sitting on a port in Monrovia, Liberia. Enjoying the company of my ship friends, the heat of Liberia, and a hazy sunset. A week later, I was wearing a sweater and jeans, sitting in a cafe in London. A week later I was pretending to play guitar in my back yard with a cup of coffee. Three completely different scenarios all found in real life. It makes me wonder what reality is.
Reality is a strange idea. I wonder, what is it really? Is reality owning a house and a car? Is it having a family? Is it finding security? Is it following a life plan? Is it exploring the world? Is it helping somebody? Is it pursuing your dreams? Does it have a specific feel and taste?
Paul says
"For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known."
Jesus is reality. He is the only constant. He is loves tangible full expression. The metric of completion. The grade of the tangible.
We now live in a false reality. The goals and dreams; the plans and commitments; the houses and cars; the families and friends; the good deeds and sacrifices; they are dim fleeting shadows next to Christ.
Which brings such freedom. We can't produce reality. We live in the shadow lands. We build air castles. But the Spirit of God can and wants to produce an eternal reality while we live and breath and hope and dream and fall in our temporal state. The Spirit wants to produce in our hearts and minds that which rust cannot destroy and thieves cannot break in and steal.
Galatians 5:22
But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, long suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.
Eternity can be born from our lives at anytime or moment. It doesn't matter what we are doing, where we are living or going, who we are with, or what dreams are in our heads.
At any time, any place, any moment, we can learn to love. We can radiate joy. We can experience peace. We can become long suffering. We can exude gentleness. We can walk in faith. We can live in the light. We can effect our eternity. We don't need to live in the shadows.
I don't claim to live in the Spirit but I would like to. I want God to create and define a new reality in my life that is defined by eternal things rather then temporal.
I suppose life is for learning.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
cleaning
As I unpack my bags and attempt to get myself oragnized I have stumbled accross an old journal. I like this entry.
August 24, 2006
It seems as if a spiritual death of sorts has occurred in the depths of my heart. The innocent and childlike faith that caused my heart and mind to be so easily influenced by the Spirit and nature of God has been replaced by a questioning mind and a jaded heart. Life which daily felt fueled by potential and possibility is deflated to no more than a cycle of days filled with things that must be accomplished.
I understand that daily life is as sacred as spiritual life and in fact there should be no separation between the two. But the thought of living the next 40 years in the mundane of getting by and doing what must be done is a thought that spirals my heart and mind to a depressed state. God has placed a thousand dreams in my heart for something different. Not better than the ordinary but far away from it. “There must be more than this”, is that anthem that haunts my mind throughout the day.
And there must be. And there is.
August 24, 2006
It seems as if a spiritual death of sorts has occurred in the depths of my heart. The innocent and childlike faith that caused my heart and mind to be so easily influenced by the Spirit and nature of God has been replaced by a questioning mind and a jaded heart. Life which daily felt fueled by potential and possibility is deflated to no more than a cycle of days filled with things that must be accomplished.
I understand that daily life is as sacred as spiritual life and in fact there should be no separation between the two. But the thought of living the next 40 years in the mundane of getting by and doing what must be done is a thought that spirals my heart and mind to a depressed state. God has placed a thousand dreams in my heart for something different. Not better than the ordinary but far away from it. “There must be more than this”, is that anthem that haunts my mind throughout the day.
And there must be. And there is.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
a brave new world
It had been a year since I'd driven down this road. My tired tear stained eyes grasped their final view of my home for the past year.
A woman with a baby tightly secured to her back with a lappa, while carrying a large bowl on her head. The pedestrians who randomly dove out into the street seemingly timed so they would have the best chance at striking our vehicle. The broken concrete monument that stood watch over Monrovia's likewise broken skyline, with it's barely ledgible bold faced words "protect human dignity" amidst the faded chipped red paint.Liberia.
I remembered taking this drive a year ago. Sitting in the back of a nine seat Land Rover, staring out the window at the lush green terrain of Liberia's countryside. I caught my first glimpses of her people. Dark skinned with distinct cheek bones and large, wide set eyes. They were beautiful.
As we drove past the city limits in the lush countryside I thought about the group of 20 or so friends who had gathered at the end of the gangway to wish me goodbye. It had been an international salute of flailing hands in the air releasing, me back into the world from which I had came.Their faces froze in my short term memory, causing a sadness in my heart. This was goodbye. Tonight the momentum of the ship would continue on as it always did; but I would no longer be a part of it's force. My bed in cabin 3426 was temporarily empty and I'd been de-winged of my ID badge.
The self-sufficient independent cynic had acquired a group of remarkably lovely friends that had crossed a threshold in her heart that she previously rarely allowed passage too. Goodbye was sad.
As we pulled into the airport, my stomach groaned. Looking at the car clock I realized why; it was 5 pm; dinner time on the ship. My stomach had become conditioned like Pavlov's dogs.
After reassuring the baggage woman my two large bags didn't house any stow-away children, I was given a boarding pass and shuttled into a stale one room waiting area.
I took my place amongst the rows of plastic, undersized chairs that had the word "UNMIL" an the accompanying logo stenciled on the back. A man behind me asked a uniformed Liberian man about the state of the wall air conditioning unit that was hung amidst the sea of plastic, blue linzoid curtains. Apparently he was too hot. The transition to the western world begins.
Tired and uncomfortable in my chair, I moved my bags and laid done on the ceramic tiles, leaning against the wall. Listening to my i pod, falling in and out of sleep, my eyes roamed around the room.
A woman dressed in a police uniform with an UNMIL patch. Men in crisp suits. A presumed journalist with a large camera bag and a telegraphic lens. A few "aid workerish" types like myself.
I opened my Bible and began reading 1 Corinthians 13. Love is patient. Love is kind. Two photos fell out of My Bible. One of a group of friends at Nimba mountain, another of me and the "A Ward Men's Club".
I saw love and a few more tears.
Love is what I had felt this year. Love is what I saw. I had loved my friends; I had loved my patients.
A third class bus carried me from the waiting area to the plane. A staircase lined with bright lights served as my gateway to the world from which I had come. I strutted up the steps, as if waking up a bizarre catwalk. Before entering the plane I paused and looked back one last time. Liberia. This was goodbye.
In my head a thousand faces. Image's and storyboards. Tales of struggle. Tales of war. Tales of hope. Tales of sorrow. Stories of death. Stories of miracles. Stories of wickedness. Stories of love.
I carried them with me. They had forever impressed my heart and changed the way I viewed the world.
I settled into my seat and turned on my i pod as the plane dove into the dark abyss of the night sky. Heading towards the unknown. I still can't see where we are heading.
When I arrive home it will most likely be unchanged. I am certain the momentum of life has continued in my absence.But it will be different. I have changed. My eyes see a new world.
A woman with a baby tightly secured to her back with a lappa, while carrying a large bowl on her head. The pedestrians who randomly dove out into the street seemingly timed so they would have the best chance at striking our vehicle. The broken concrete monument that stood watch over Monrovia's likewise broken skyline, with it's barely ledgible bold faced words "protect human dignity" amidst the faded chipped red paint.Liberia.
I remembered taking this drive a year ago. Sitting in the back of a nine seat Land Rover, staring out the window at the lush green terrain of Liberia's countryside. I caught my first glimpses of her people. Dark skinned with distinct cheek bones and large, wide set eyes. They were beautiful.
As we drove past the city limits in the lush countryside I thought about the group of 20 or so friends who had gathered at the end of the gangway to wish me goodbye. It had been an international salute of flailing hands in the air releasing, me back into the world from which I had came.Their faces froze in my short term memory, causing a sadness in my heart. This was goodbye. Tonight the momentum of the ship would continue on as it always did; but I would no longer be a part of it's force. My bed in cabin 3426 was temporarily empty and I'd been de-winged of my ID badge.
The self-sufficient independent cynic had acquired a group of remarkably lovely friends that had crossed a threshold in her heart that she previously rarely allowed passage too. Goodbye was sad.
As we pulled into the airport, my stomach groaned. Looking at the car clock I realized why; it was 5 pm; dinner time on the ship. My stomach had become conditioned like Pavlov's dogs.
After reassuring the baggage woman my two large bags didn't house any stow-away children, I was given a boarding pass and shuttled into a stale one room waiting area.
I took my place amongst the rows of plastic, undersized chairs that had the word "UNMIL" an the accompanying logo stenciled on the back. A man behind me asked a uniformed Liberian man about the state of the wall air conditioning unit that was hung amidst the sea of plastic, blue linzoid curtains. Apparently he was too hot. The transition to the western world begins.
Tired and uncomfortable in my chair, I moved my bags and laid done on the ceramic tiles, leaning against the wall. Listening to my i pod, falling in and out of sleep, my eyes roamed around the room.
A woman dressed in a police uniform with an UNMIL patch. Men in crisp suits. A presumed journalist with a large camera bag and a telegraphic lens. A few "aid workerish" types like myself.
I opened my Bible and began reading 1 Corinthians 13. Love is patient. Love is kind. Two photos fell out of My Bible. One of a group of friends at Nimba mountain, another of me and the "A Ward Men's Club".
I saw love and a few more tears.
Love is what I had felt this year. Love is what I saw. I had loved my friends; I had loved my patients.
A third class bus carried me from the waiting area to the plane. A staircase lined with bright lights served as my gateway to the world from which I had come. I strutted up the steps, as if waking up a bizarre catwalk. Before entering the plane I paused and looked back one last time. Liberia. This was goodbye.
In my head a thousand faces. Image's and storyboards. Tales of struggle. Tales of war. Tales of hope. Tales of sorrow. Stories of death. Stories of miracles. Stories of wickedness. Stories of love.
I carried them with me. They had forever impressed my heart and changed the way I viewed the world.
I settled into my seat and turned on my i pod as the plane dove into the dark abyss of the night sky. Heading towards the unknown. I still can't see where we are heading.
When I arrive home it will most likely be unchanged. I am certain the momentum of life has continued in my absence.But it will be different. I have changed. My eyes see a new world.
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