My Story

      About two and a half months ago (holy smokes, it was that long ago already!?), I stood in front of the Darlington United Methodist Church and told my story. It was one of the most thrilling, engaging, enlightening things I've done. And by the end, I was like "ha, take that speech class!" Anywho! A few have been wanting to see the entirety of the piece (because the recording was cut off with about 3 minutes to go). I feel like re-recording it would be a mistake because I would want to re-create what was there, which is impossible. So, I will give you the words I spoke. Only, written. It was an honor.

      "When Justin Beiber came out with his autobiography, I was with a majority of my friends in thinking how stupid it was. I mean, (at the time) he was only 17 years old. What in life could he have done? Since then, I’ve had three blogs, a “web series,” and have written a few papers about different aspects of my life. Needless to say, I better understand how one might feel the need/want to share different experiences with the world. However, when Diana asked me to speak today, after a surge of excitement and honor, I was also filled with the questions of “what have I done?” I mean, thinking back to all of the different testimonies I’d heard, they were of people who were older, wiser, more experienced than me. What can I contribute?

            Then I immediately got rid of the stress I was putting on myself of “contributing” this great philosophical journey where I knew what God’s motive was the whole time. Instead, I’d simplify and tell my story. So far.

            So, here it goes.

            Once upon a time, in an Episcopal Church far, far away, a baby Mary Catherine Taylor was baptized. Once that holy water hit her forehead, she was transformed into a glittering baby and ascended as Jesus, in a full Liberachi suit played a full Halleluia chorus on the piano as his Angel Backup Singers sang and Jesus belted a super high solo note.

            Okay, I may have taken some artistic liberties there. Truth is, I don’t remember my baptism. I was like three days old or something. But my outfit was stellar. Bonnet and all.

            Growing up, I remember going to church the beginning few years of my life, and then picking it back up right around the time I started high school.

            In the beginning part of my life, I was an annoying little girl who couldn’t sit still. Some things never change. We went to St. John’s Episcopal Church in Crawfordsville. All I knew about the service is that I really wanted to try on that huge white coat with the huge sleeves that the guy breaking bread was wearing. And that mom let us have gum after we drank that grape-juice-gone-wrong and stale, grainy chalk bread. No, frankly, I remember next to nothing about my time as an Episcopalian at that age.

            The middle time (I like to call Mary’s Middle Ages. Not because they were dark and gloomy and that I had to fight off dragons. It’s really just called that because I noticed a pattern), we didn’t really attend church. We never really discussed God, or Jesus, or church, or The Bible. Not to say that my childhood was empty with a whole lot of dark happenings. No, I think that Sunday became a day that was hard t get up early for, really. And my childhood was awesome. I have wonderful parents who, without whom, I wouldn’t understand the love of God and the gift of unconditional love. They taught Andy and I to think for ourselves, so long as it was through love, compassion, and understanding.

            Then came a breakthrough. At my 13^th birthday, when Alisha Burns had given me a wondrous magazine/book/thing called “Revolve.” It was a kind of New Testament in the language of teenagers. I didn’t know what I was looking at, or attempting to read. And even though I couldn’t get passed the first paragraph because of this weird, dense language, I was captivated. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not long after that, we received a gift from people handing out, what I thought, were Bibles. In actuality, it was The Book of Mormon. But, still! I asked my dad the difference between the two. And where did Mormons come from? Are we Mormons? What’s the difference between Mormons and Us? Are they Christian? Are we Christian?

            Can we go to church?

            I’d finally asked. And, for a few years, we tried to make church a regular thing. Some might say we tried going religiously. We tried a few services at St. John’s, but because of political differences, Dad decided we stop going there. So we tried Darlington United Methodist Church. Jim Spencer was the pastor then. By that time, we’d almost got the rhythm of going to church, but we were far from perfect. We’d go a couple of times, stop for a while, go a few more times, stop. I was relatively unphased by it. That’s fine. We’ll try again some other time.

            So that was it. Our Sundays were totally free. I’m not sure I could go so far as to say my curiosity stopped, it’s just I didn’t know what questions to ask. It was too overwhelming. So, time passed.

            Then, one day, Tommy and Shirley Thompson were on their way to our neighbors house. To set things up for those who don’t know, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson live across the street from us. I have grown up loving their house and loving, just as much as their house, their lawn. Mr. Thompson works wonders everyday in that magical lawn, I’m sure of it.

Anywho!

            We were outside, as well. So, we stopped them and started chatting. They had said that a new pastor is leading DUMC. “A young one” with a wife whose voice was gorgeous.

            Wait, there are young pastors? In all of the movies, all of the times we’d gone to church, I only remember older people. They allow young people to lead a church? We decided to go that Sunday and check it out. Turns out yes, they do, in fact, allow younger people to lead.

            Andy and Leslie Payton were a pretty powerful couple. I remember after the first service we attended, I went up to Andy, shook his hand, and said, with totally honesty and amazement “I stayed awake.” Like 100%. I was with him. He drew me in, told a story, and weirdly, I got that there was a part of my life (or more than one part) I could do better. Like, I somehow got that I can better my life! Let the curiosity commence.

            Through Youth Group, where Andy and Leslie would ask intriguing questions and lead a discussion, questions on top of questions arose. I began to see a little more of what everyone is talking about. I began to understand that the word “Christian” doesn’t always mean the fire and brimstone Christians we see on the sidewalk with a megaphone. I started asking how do I really pray? How can I get closer to God? Am I too young? Do I have to like Christian Rock? Why are there different decorations for the cross? I almost made it a point to ask a question at the end of a service, when I was commenting about another great sermon.

            Then came the worse. The worst news anyone could ever hear (I thought). Andy and Leslie were leaving. Their tenure here at DUMC had ended.

            What am I supposed to do now!? They can’t go! I still have a bajillion of questions and now we’re going to get a random person I don’t know and they’re gonna be all like “gah, you’re all doomed!” and I just… GAH!

            I thought for sure, the world was ending. There’s no other explanation.

            So, as with the rest of the congregation. We waited. We waited to see who it was. Who was going to lead the church next? And how can he or she even compare, in the slightest, with the Paytons?

            Then, we received a postcard. With a young couple (score). A bright redhead woman who was pregnant, a man with blonde, spikey hair, and their daughter. With the postcard, a letter reading how excited they were to join DUMC. My parents, along with many others, I’m sure, were skeptical. And though I shared some of their skepticism, I was still really impressed that they took the time to send all of us one of these cool postcards and letters!

            Our first Sunday there with the dou-pastoralship, thing was like something I’d never experienced before. Maureen used the piano, Bryan with his guitar, jokes (during the sermon!) and all-around excitement. I was blown away. They delivered. They really took that baton Andy had handed to them and they ran with it. It was almost other-worldly. Then Youth Group! I mean, we continued to ask questions and discuss and read and understand.

            Whenever I had a question, randomly, I’d Facebook them immediately. Which happened (still does) quite often. From them, I understood better how to show the love of Christ without trying to convert people against their will. I learned that “everything happens for a reason” can sometimes be a cop-out response. I learned that God is with us, mourns with us, yet makes beauty out of our mistakes and missteps. Through them, I learned that an open mind isn’t only okay in the Christian world, it’s actually super useful.

            This past October, my grandmother died. A woman I’d grown up with and was, truly, my second mother. It was the first, very real, very close death I’d ever experienced. Ever. I mean, my dad’s dad (my Pop Taylor) had died in 2009, but we live in different states. Not saying I didn’t mourn, but this was different. I had started seeing the suffering my mom was experiencing. Well, that everyone seemed to be experiencing. I suddenly started thinking things like “maybe it’s better to keep my distance.” To not get close to anyone, then I wouldn’t be so heartbroken when they go. I started thinking about other deaths I might have to experience. Could I do it? I mean, really? Then I started thinking about my grandmother. I mean, is she really gone? Forever? Like, when I go out for visits she won’t be at that kitchen table doing her wordsearches? She won’t be calling us telling us to tune in to Oprah because “you’ll want to see this!” She won’t be reading ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas to us anymore? She’s really gone?

            We find God the most in tragedy. My mind was on constant running mode for what seemed like forever. Then, on my way back to school from home where I’d spent the week of her death, viewing, and funeral (it felt like three years), a rush of calm poured over me. I smiled, willingly, for the first time in about two weeks. I was relieved.

            I went to school and vigorously looked up anything and everything I could about Heaven. About God. About afterlife. And for about four weeks, I felt like, quite literally my grandmother watching me. Almost to the point where I was like “okay, grandma, I got this, thank you.” I decided that my grandmother was. I decided to go deeper in this Christian life, or walk with God. I decided that I needed to find the love of God everywhere. Because it is everywhere.

            Now, I continue to read the Bible (almost) daily. In one way or another. I have found other ways to know, understand, interpret, and spread the love of God. Whether simply through showing appreciation, or a kind gesture, or even a hug. I still ask questions. Loads. I am considering after-school options, and seminary is on my list. I continue to grow closer to God. During Lent, I wrote a Lenten Promise Blog and found solace contemplating, questioning, looking through The Bible, social issues, theology, and God. Finding the love of God in every post.

            A defining point in my walk, though, and an experience I’m going to leave you with was at school. I was waiting for a bus to take me to WalMart because I needed to get groceries. While waiting for the ever-so-punctual (that was a joke) bus, I saw a group of people walking past. One with a sign reading “Reasons you’re going to HELL!” One with a megaphone, one with a stool, one with pamphlets. Now, the only thing I see when I see people like this is hate, and being roped into something simply because of fear. Personally, it doesn’t work for me. And I totally get that they are doing it out of love, but it doesn’t really read. I wanted, nay, needed to do something. So, I added cardboard and poster markers to my shopping list. When I got back from WalMart, I wrote “LOVE is Bigger than the Boogie Man,” simply to let people know that God is love, not fear and hate. And I stood by them. Right by them. They had said things like “how can this young lady know what love is without Christ!? REPENT!” I didn’t say a word unless I was asked a question. At the end of my time there, I shook the hand of the leader of the REPENT SQUAD and simply said “I know you mean well doing this. I just wanted to tell you that I’m praying for you and I love you.” I just kept remembering that “love your enemy” and “offer the other cheek” verses. Expecting this guy to tell me I know nothing about love without repenting, he simply looked me in the eyes and said, with a huge sigh “amen.” It was humbling. I had shared one of the most intense, humbling moments in my life. Through simple communication, eye contact, and a few words, I had experienced the true love and hope of Christ. Through a stranger yelling at me to repent! Who knew?

      Thank you." 

Woo!

Mary Taylor

"The Fault's in YOUR Stars!"

     Being wrong is such a humbling, yet embarrassing, yet "dang it, how'd they know" kind of feeling. Some people like to put the spin on it like "it teaches me, I never get offended." Which I think is awesome! I'm trying to build that kind of mentality. It's pretty difficult. Really, I'm still trying to get out of the phase of "no, well, it's not my fault" or "woulda been great if you told me sooner" kind of route. Trying to start owning up to when I am wrong or make a mistake. Not so easy. But, hey, I have an excuse. I'm young, right? Wait. I'm graduating in two years. Like graduating college. My 20s will be practically half over. Maybe it's high time I take this lesson.

      In this society (and world) it's hard to be wrong. You've got television shows telling you when you're wrong. You've got test in school telling you you're wrong. You've got "wrong" decisions. You've got "wrong way." You've got all of these things stacking against you telling you you're wrong. It's pretty tough.

      My professors at school are amazing. They're a lot more like life coaches as opposed to professors-who-grade-my-work. They are all about not getting the right answer because, in the theater, there are no right answers. I never really worried too much about it. As about anyone will tell you (specifically my K-12 teachers), I wasn't much for always getting the right answer. I'd try my best, but if I was wrong, I was wrong. I'd get a mediocre grade and be good with it (of course, that could have been me not studying and stuff... Anywho!). So, when my professors started telling me not to worry about getting the answer right, I was like "score!" However, very recently, I discovered that it wasn't getting the right answer I was afraid of. In fact, I was just afraid to get it wrong.

      As you can imagine, my theater major leads to a lot of classes in which we perform for one another. I am always close-to-the-last one up. Afraid I'd get it wrong. When I do and my professors explain how I could make it better, I say "okay," take the note, say to myself "duh! How could you be so stupid!" and then watch my other classmates make the exact same mistake. Because we're all learning on this journey together and it's awesome.

      Then, earlier this week (at home. Spring Break 2014! Woo!) I had the car washed. Now, before I go on, know that my father is the most car-loving, car-obsessed car freak out there. His least favorite season is winter and I think it's actually because he has to go three months without clean, spotless cars. So, you can imagine with all the snow melting, there were a lot of mud puddles this week. Me, being a pretty decent car lover (lover of driving, mostly) myself, was sure to miss all potholes and huge puddles. Then there came that huge dip in the driveway I hit every time so I can get the car parked perfectly beside the sidewalk. Of course, mud is all over the passenger-side wheels. Another of course, that is the first thing he notices. "You know, next time, don't hit the puddle and there won't be those huge mud splats on the tires like that." "Dad! I can't be the perfect driver you are! I've been doing this 5 years, you've been doing it since dinosaurs ruled the Earth!"

      I noticed right there "Self, he was just trying to explain, in his sarcasm-is-the-only-way-he-can-stay-calm/joking kind of way how you can avoid the tires getting dirty for next time." Also, I thought "Self, you never think of the tires, and now you can start now that you know you should." So, I immediately said "no, you're right, dad. I'll try and avoid it next time." Now, just to mess with him, I parked in the huge mud puddle in the front driveway this week. It'll be great. Anywho!

      I read this article that listed multiple things all "twenty-somethings" should learn to do before they reach 30. One (that I noted) was to admit you were wrong. Ever since I read the article, it's plagued me. I've started noticing instances like that, that make me defensive and blame-y on other people as opposed to taking a note.

      No doubt, I am not the only person on Earth having a difficult time with this concept of admitting. The disciples had TONS of time trying to figure out what they were doing wrong. In fact, a lot of the Bible points out "no, you do this," and people lashing out. Of course, I don't think The Bible is a rule book, really. But that's another post.

      I think there are ways we can accept we were wrong. It's okay to be wrong. It's okay to not understand it at that point. It's okay to have a note given to us, or to have someone say "actually, let's try it this way instead." Chances are, the person giving you that note was given that note by someone else. It's kind of a cute little "passing on some wisdom."

      I do agree with the list, we should admit we're wrong. It's useful. We take the note, try to apply it, try not making the mistake again. But, we know, that the mistake might slip up again, but now you know what it looks like. I think that's hugely important and useful and all information. It's hard. I still can't quite master it, but I think I can do it. Sooner or later. I think we all can. It'll be great! Woo!

                         

It's a Hi Bye

      You know, I've had to say "goodbye" to a lot of people in my life. Weather it is the greeter at WalMart wishing me a happy Saturday, a close friend going abroad, Psych when it ends the last season, Seniors at graduation, or even saying "goodbye" to my grandmother as she passes. It's never easy. Never. It always leaves this feeling in my mind and body like "oh, I forgot to tell them..." or "wait, I needed to..." so on and so on. I always want more. Especially living in this over-indulgent world that is able to beautifully give us more-than-we-need of everything. But that's one thing that is a constant. Sooner or later, you say "goodbye."

      But, in their own right, "goodbyes" are awesome things. They always seem to happen at just the right time, even if we don't realize until later. Like in Mary Poppins where Mary decides to leave, for the kids have fun with their father and the father sees how wonderfully spectacular his children are! Or like in Nanny McPhee where the children finally understand the significance of what is asked of them and starts to see the humanity in adults. In both of these movies, it is the children who feel the brunt of the "goodbye blues" at first (before they have a blast with their parents). See those movies as an adult, I'm always thinking "of course she's leaving now, because you guys finally get it! Woo!" But then I end up asking "why?" every time I have to say "goodbye" to someone. Of course, I'm sure they don't have the grand plan as Mary Poppins and Nanny McPhee had, but a "goodbye" always affects me. I am always left with my thoughts and in that, and the days following, I grow as a person.

      Truly, I believe that every single person we come into contact with impacts our life, even if it's only a tiny bit. And those people in our lives everyday, well, we need to say "goodbye" to them, even if it's only for a few hours, months, days, years, forever. For only when they are away from you will you feel the impact they have made. It's true. That "you never know what you have until it's gone." It's true. But there's no use looking at it through those sad eyes. Think of how blessed you were having them in your life. If you went on seeing them every single day, all day, you would take it for granted and not see the true beauty of what you have with that person.

      Jesus said His goodbyes before His crucifixion and warned his disciples more than once of what is to come. However, the disciples, being human (and Jesus also being human) didn't fully believe it. Think about it. If a close friend/ally/mentor said to you "soon, I will die." Part of you thinks "nah, can't be." Another part of you thinks "I must spend as much time with this person as possible and soak up all of their amazing intelligence." And, just as you would do when you know a "goodbye" is coming, when the time came, it was, alas, too soon. Lovely news is that Jesus rose again three days later. Thing is, he left us on a cliff-hanger. But that's a later post!

      See, though the disciples were immensely distraught (for they have seen things The Bible doesn't mention, is my belief) they took what He taught them and let it affect their lives and, in turn, affect the World.

      I believe we have that capability. When we say "goodbye," we are allowing that person to leave an impression on us. And, whether good or bad, we allow it to change how we see the world, how we act, how we say "goodbye" next time. It's allowing you to grow into the person you will be tomorrow.

      So, really, you never, really, totally say "goodbye" to that person. Whether you believe in an afterlife or not, you carry upon you what that person left with you. No matter what it might be. Isn't that beautiful and something to, truly, be celebrated. I think so. Although "goodbyes" are rough and never, ever easy, they're important and crucial and, sooner or later, beautiful.

Lenten Sundays

I was conflicted this morning. As I grabbed a soda (the thing I gave up for Lent), I sat down and was wondering if I should do a blog post today, as it, too, is a Lenten promise. However, then I questioned why Sundays are not included in the Lenten season. According to this guy, it is because Jesus arose on a Sunday. It would be sending mixed messages if we mourn our sins and take the day to fast (as is the reason for the Lent Season). Which makes me excited! Here's why.

As all of you guys observing Lent knows, Lent is to represent Jesus' 40 days in the wilderness, fasting, resisting temptation of the Devil. In that, we mourn our sins and contemplate them and repent of them through this season. However, on Sundays, we remember Jesus rose again and we celebrate that our sins are saved by Him. That said, we take Sunday to celebrate the work Jesus did (and is doing) through us. Not to say we're taking the Sunday "off," but we are, instead, celebrating that we no longer have to suffer, for He gave the ultimate sacrifice and suffered for our sins. In forgiveness and love. Isn't that amazing? To know that God loves all of us so much that He sent his true son to live among us, inspire us, teach us, and die for us. I think it's beautiful.

So, this Sunday, as I drink my one soda, I celebrate that Jesus loves me and that through Him, I am loved and forgiven. What a beautiful gift it is.

I love this picture because it depicts Jesus truly happy and joyful. Not that stoic kind of too-good-to-be-human-and-show-emotions Jesus we see in a lot of early art.

Happy first Sunday of Lent!

Woo!
Mary Taylor