I have been to Disney World exactly two times. And while I know this might alienate many of my loyals, it’s because I am just not a Disney person. To be more specific, actually, I am not a theme/amusement/fun park person in general. There are just so.freaking.many.people there. It’s not that I am against the gen pop overall, I just don’t generally like being squished up all amongst the masses of them. I don’t like crowds. I don’t like roller coasters. I don’t like having an anxiety attack trying to keep track of my children, who are true surburbanites in that they have no concept of keeping together or worrying about crowds and safety and tend to run amuck regardless of their surroundings. It is enough to make a grown woman (read: me) weep.
Anyway, the last time I visited Disney World was as a parent. A very young one at that. I’m not sure what possessed us to do this to ourselves as human beings, being that my husband is also of a like mind about theme parks (total relationship checkbox if you ask me). But we were all “let’s do this for the kids, it’ll be great.” Oh my, what sweet, sweet innocent fools we were. Because it wasn’t.
Disney as an adult is sort of like a funhouse of mirrors. Like, it should be good. But it’s not. Happiest Place on Earth my behind. Around 2:00 pm on any given day at Disney you’ll begin to hear a subtle yet distinct sound humming through the crowd–an incessant drone if you will. No, it’s not because of a parade or some magical Disney music. It’s actually because every single child, collectively all nap deprived and hopped up on $15 cotton candy, has begun to whine and cry and squirm and complain. Tears are common and overstimulated whining is prevalent. And both the parents, all glassy-eyed and beaten down to the core, and their wallets emptied of every last bloody cent, contribute to the drone with collective sighs and groans and eye rolls so loud you can almost hear them.
It’s a good time. Right? Total bucket list.
And don’t even get me started on those horrid Vibram Five Finger Shoe Glove Thingys that were popular when we were there. Because everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, at Disney was wearing them. America….let’s chat about this for a second. Roughly .003% of us were running ultramarathons at the time (or, like, ever, because ultramarathons are a special kind of crazy). Yet approximately 70% of us adopted a trend that involved wearing shoes that looked like gloves for our feet because some ultra marathoner (not a doctor, by the way) said they were better for us. (turns out they weren’t). God bless those were ugly. I am still trying to wipe the memory of so many toes being exposed in public.
Yet I digress…
The first time I visited was as a kid. I’m sure it was, in fact, the happiest place on earth for me at the time. I did not grow up with a ton of money so I am positive, in retrospect, that my parents scrimped and saved to get us there. I’m also positive that it was just as much of a beat down for them as it was for me, 30 years later. I was in this whole “oh yes It’s a Small World” phase of life (read: childhood in the 1980’s) and I forced my mother to go on the ride, which, in case you do not remember, involved riding a boat with no captain through a pitch-black tunnel while mechanical puppets wearing culturally appropriate yet equally terrifying ethnic attire sang a song about cultural inclusion and danced weird mechanical dance moves, no less than 52 times in one day. I’m sure she’s been in therapy for years because of it. But what I remember most about that day, above all else, is the fact that I got lost at the Dumbo ride.
I can’t remember what we had for dinner last night or what my daughter’s first word was (insert collective gasp at my horrible parenting here), but I remember this as if it was yesterday. I thought I was following my mom. Until I wasn’t. And I stood there, right by the Dumbo ride, and cried. I was lost. That sinking feeling. No family in sight. Nothing.
I can still feel the panic. I can feel the abject terror. The unmooring feeling of being completely and utterly alone, when just moments before I wasn’t. I was surrounded by love and joy at the happiest place on earth with my family by my side. And then I wasn’t.
Friends, being lost is terrifying, isn’t it?
The thing about being lost for most of us is that it is almost always preceded by certainty. Certainty that we are following the right path, the right person. Certainty that we are doing ok. Happy even. We are certain. I was, at least. I knew I was following my mom. I could see her. I could reach out and touch her.
But it wasn’t my mom after all. I was mistaken. And my certainty vanished. I was quite certainly LOST.
I wish I could say that this was the only time in my life I felt lost. But it’s not. Sure, it looks different when you’re lost as an adult. But the pain and panic, it isn’t but one shade different.
Because being lost as an adult looks like the end of a relationship you had counted on to be your forever. Being lost as an adult means a terrifying diagnosis coming from out of literal nowhere. Being lost means the loss of a job or disillusionment after years of giving yourself to a company that will, no matter what, go on without you. Being lost means friendships end, sometimes for no known reason, and groups and social circles shift.
Lost as an adult stings differently, but it no less painful or terrifying.
Maybe it’s terrifying because we grow up idolizing adults, looking at their lives and feeling certain they have it all together. I remember seeing my parents and their peers as invincible and terribly efficient. They didn’t seem to falter (except that one time the lost me at the Dumbo ride, for which they get a big fat parenting F) or stumble. They seemed found.
Guess the jokes on me, now, right? Because adulthood is one giant Lost and Found.
I was lost because I followed the wrong leader. I thought I was following my mom (not literal, here, people, give me some poetic license and go with the metaphor). But I wasn’t. I was following a relationship I expected to check all of my boxes and fill all of my holes. I was following a job I expected to tell me I was competent and worthy. I was following a life of looking the part, wearing the clothes, driving the car.
I was following the wrong leaders.
Because all of them, though each one is good and valid and purposeful, were going to let me down. Not because they were bad or deficient, but because they were never meant to be my leader. They were always meant to be a part and not the whole. They were never meant to make me, well, me.
Friends, I only know this because I have been lost. I have been left empty and panicked and alone, staring at a future I couldn’t imagine. Because all of the pieces I gave way too much stock to, they fell away. Never meant to carry the burden of being my salvation, they failed and crumbled. My life looked unrecognizable to me in a matter of days.
But being lost always means you have the ability to be found.
Being found means realizing that nothing here on this earth is really going to fill you up. It means realizing that my cup, it’s going to be empty until I figure out how to fill it with something that will not drain. It means I will always be searching if I’m placing my confidence in things as transient as I am.
Being found for me meant letting go of the notion that I could find myself. Learning that I cannot fill my own cup. That hustle or love or things could not fill my hungry soul. Friends, I was found because God absolutely will leave the 99 to come find poor lost souls like my crazy self, wandering aimlessly around the Dumbo Ride of life, crying big fat tears of abandonment.
God is that good. He isn’t in the business of only loving the ones who have it all figured out. He came here for us, the crazy lost souls who can’t find their way around. He came for the ones thousands of miles away, so far gone they seem lost forever. He came for the poor. The dirty. The sinners. The weak.
Friends, this Jesus guy, He came for us at our worst.
Being found in Him didn’t mean my problems all disappeared. It didn’t mean my relationships were immediately repaired and my self-worth immediately stitched itself back together. I didn’t have a purpose plopped down into my lap without question and my friend group didn’t magically reappear. 
But I did find in Him peace and trust. I found faith to keep going, no matter what life would throw at me in my messes. I found the strength to keep plodding along, as He whispered in His word that I am loved and that I matter to Him. I found, slowly, a passion and a path that has just recently opened up to things I never could have imagined. I found friends, new and old, who love me and have my back no matter what. I’ve found new hope in my marriage and love I could never imagine that bursts straight out of my heart when I stare at my family.
And none of it, not the finding, not the love, not the purpose, would be here if it weren’t for being lost and then found.
My parents, they found me by the Dumbo Ride. They found me because parents always come back. They always find their lost kids. Jesus, He found me for the same reason.
It always comes down to love, friends. We can’t outrun it. We can’t escape it. We are loved. We are not lost. We just need to be found.
If you’re feeling lost, especially this time of year that can be so hard on the hurting heart, reach out. Reach out to me. I promise I’ve been there, no judgment. Reach out to a friend, a mentor, a pastor a teacher. Reach out and get found.
Peace, love, and being found,
Meg
Welcome to BurntToast! My name is Meaghan, and this is my safe space, a place where we can share stories, share recipes and share life. It’s my dream that you can come here, kick your shoes off and pour yourself a glass of wine while you read, laugh, and maybe even hop into the kitchen. This is my heart, for all of you to see. And ALL are welcome here.