Of lions, legends, and love

Myron with Africans, wife Adda and daughter Anna
Northern Rhodesia, circa 1925

His nickname was “Sia ku yasa mu liso,” meaning “the person who shoots (literally who spears) in the eye.”  Known for his legendary courage in tracking lions--those that preyed on local cattle--and his accuracy with a gun, Myron Taylor died on September 16, 1931, days after being mauled by a lion...”a victim of his own fearlessness and self confidence,” wrote a fellow missionary.

I’ve been considering Myron’s life on this 85th anniversary of his death, and seeing some small parallels in our lives.  I too went off to Africa as a young adult, moved by faith, with a sense of calling, and ready for adventure.  I’m less impulsive than Myron appears to have been, and my 64 years now give me a little more life experience than he, who died at 58.  But like him, my self confidence has perhaps not always served me well. 

Enjoying Victoria Falls, 1976

With students and colleague Mary Biser (L)
Macha Mission Nurse Training School, 1978

H. Frances Davidson (L) and Adda G. Engle, founders of Macha Mission

Linked to Myron through his wife Adda Engle, a first cousin to my great-grandfather, I lived and worked in the late 1970s where the couple first met--at Macha Mission in Zambia.  Adda Engle and colleague Frances Davidson founded the mission a year prior to Myron’s 1907 arrival in what was then Northern Rhodesia.  The two women had trekked 485 miles through the African bush, in spite of those who tried to discourage and block their venture.  “Their tenacity earned them respect and reluctant assistance,” said a beneficiary of the mission.

Map from Davidson's 1915 book, South and South Central Africa

Davidson called Myron the "long-looked-for-co-laborer."  He hunted game to provide meat for the growing mission population (a school had been started) and made bricks for building permanent, ant-proof houses.  It soon became clear, however, that Myron’s passion was outreach, and his departures on evangelistic journeys were often abrupt and sometimes ill considered, according to Davidson.  He traveled in the rainy season and suffered repeated bouts of malaria, coming close to death at one point.  

Within two years of Myron’s arrival, he and Adda were married.  Davidson wrote in her journal: "I am sorry to be separated from Sister Engle…as I have enjoyed her association as much as that of her intended has been a trial to me."  The newlyweds soon sensed a call to a new area, and they persevered through numerous setbacks and trials toward their goal.  

Mission house at Sikalongo

The Zambian Brethren in Christ Church celebrated, last month, the 100 year anniversary of the mission founded by Adda and Myron.  Sikalongo Mission brought education and health care to the Tonga people, along with the Gospel.  One of Zambia’s leaders in the struggle for independence from Great Britain was educated and nurtured at Sikalongo.

My own "native stool" acquired in Tongaland

The Reverend Peter Munsaka and Arthur Kutwayo of Sikalongo said this of Myron:  He “...sat on the native stools or on the same bench with local people.  He was among very few white people who prepared a ‘sit’ for the local people inside his house.  In most cases natives were to be met outside the house and spoken to there.”

What made Myron different?  Perhaps his own humble beginnings?  I interviewed the Taylor’s daughter Anna Taylor Grissinger in 2004 (aged 91, with a keen memory) and she shared this family history:

Myron, who grew up in the backwoods of Michigan and had an 8^th grade education, was the great grandson of a English general.  The general's son took passage to the former colonies, settled in Detroit, married an American, and was disowned by his aristocratic family.  The young couple died in an influenza epidemic, and the general never came to know his grandson George.  

George Taylor fell in love with Sophia Neff, a young girl whose life with a alcoholic father prompted her to ask her husband to live where no alcohol was available.  So off to rural Michigan they went to raise a family of four.  The family met neighbors of the Brethren in Christ persuasion, and red-haired Myron, nicknamed Flammable, joined the local fellowship and soon learned of the church's new venture in the Rhodesias.  

Myron and Adda Engle Taylor with Anna (L) and Ruth

Myron experienced God's call to Africa in his late twenties, and spent the next several years preparing for mission work.  He made his way from Boston to Liverpool on a cattle ship, his berth in exchange for feeding and caring for the livestock.  He traveled from Liverpool to Cape Town by regular steamer and was soon headed to the African interior--to his mate, his work, his destiny.

Anna (L) and Ruth with their mother Adda

I wrote more about the Taylor family’s life in Africa, and about Myron’s death and its aftermath in the April 2016 edition of Brethren in Christ History & Life (bic-history.org Through the Eyes of a Child).   Though I’m a gatherer rather than a hunter, the eulogy at Myron’s death is worthy of aspiration, whatever blunders I may make on this earthly journey.

Physically, he hunted and brought us meat.

Spiritually, he hunted and brought us to God.

Please God, receive him in our tradition,

For he lived with us and loved us.

Black and white photos courtesy of Brethren in Christ Historical Library and Archives
Info on Myron's nickname from "Memories" by David E. Climenhaga 
Quotes and eulogy from Anabaptist Songs in African Hearts: A Global Mennonite History by John Lapp

Mi Ranchito: Dust, Tears, and Hope

Washing machine tubs=septic system

"You live on a ranch; you have to be creative!" declared plumber Jaime, hoisting old washing machine tubs into holes dug to receive waste.  "The solids will stay in the bins and the liquids seep out.  These should be good for several years."  Learning from Jaime and others, my ranch manager/son Owen has recycled old items to make repairs, screen doors, and a workshop. He's also found his vocation: building and repairing guitars, and it's a joy to see his delight in the work and early success following weeks of study and preparation.

Owen and helper use old garage door for Owen's workshop

Owen repairing broken guitar neck

Two-year old Alex sometimes feeds goats through the fence

A ranch, by definition, has animals, and so far we have none. Just a small boy who sometimes acts like one. We could count the neighbor's horse who grazes on our weeds now and then, or the rooster that regularly flies over the fence. I balked at allowing the neighbor's goats to graze here, alongside a toddler. But one day a large billy goat, eyeing the green on our side from the barren field next door, jumped over a dip in the fence and quickly nibbled up some plants we were nurturing as dust barriers. "Goats will eat everything!" said Rosa, who grew up in rural country near Mexico's southern border.

Pepper tree a favorite spot for Aunt Lois and Rosa

"It was a paradise," says neighbor Lupita, of the hectare I lease in Baja California. "There were fruit trees of all kinds and beautiful flowers…years ago when water was plentiful." Owen and I came to the land a year ago, soon thereafter welcoming Aunt Lois and her caregiver/companion Rosa, with little Alex. We were pleased to inherit the hardy survivors of a half decade's neglect and drought: three large fig trees, a half dozen olive trees, several flowering bushes, lots of lilies, and a huge Peruvian pepper tree. One evening a gray-haired man in a pickup, unknown to us, showed up at our gate and requested pepper tree leaves for his sick wife.

Abundant fig harvest from 3 trees!

Trying my hand at brining olives

Hoping to slow the trucks that speed down our road; round
house is where Aunt Lois lives, her window away from the dust!

Agriculture enjoys water usage priority in the Baja, and the growth of large berry and vegetable farms seems to know no bounds. Daily, 5:30-6 am, buses carrying pickers roll by just yards from our homes, and later, trucks with supplies for building tents to protect the growing produce, and trucks to carry the produce away. Water trucks drive by too, sometimes wetting the dirt road. More often dust billows, covering everything and seeping into our houses.

Owen with neighbors Fernando and Loreto,
soon after we came to the land in September 2015

This past week neighbors Fernando and Loreto and I drafted a letter to the head of city government, requesting permission to built speed bumps on our road (27 of us signed the petition). And we talked of water woes. The city water flows about every four days (and costs about $4/month), but rarely fills cisterns completely. I'd recently called a man who sells from his private well, as no water had flowed for over a week and laundry was piling up! "It's expensive to buy," said Loreto, though the man charged half (about $22 USD) of what he'd asked six months ago to fill our cistern. Neighbor Lupita was visiting me when the water truck arrived this time, and I credit her presence with my getting a Mexican rather than a Gringo price!

Following our letter-writing session, Fernando gifted me with veggies from a relative's farm and Loreto with delicious marmalade she made from our figs. The friendship of neighbors in a new land is priceless to me, and I've now met everyone down the road, having made the rounds with the petition. "We also need to ask for street lights," said one woman. "Come to a surprise 70th birthday party for our father on Saturday," whispered the daughter of a large extended family that lives two ranches down. Beef sides hung along a porch…for the party, perhaps.

Neighbors Loreto and Fernando's field and house;
white tent for "surprise" birthday party just beyond the house

Six years in Africa prepared me to live with limited water, and work in Haiti, with dust and delays. I thrive on most challenges. But nothing prepared me for the rending of my marriage--a union of three decades, imperfect but precious. I now understand why divorce is called a "living death." This rugged new terrain has been watered with tears…many shed alone, some with other women--befriended at my kitchen table or the women's shelter--who are also struggling with family pain. Sustained by the love of our sons and faith that God is working in all, I'm enormously grateful for the emotional support of a small circle of faithful family members and friends.

Shelter women here for a Mother's Day celebration

Meanwhile, I've been on a quest to understand more about childhood trauma and its impact on my family, our extended families, and others. During a recent camping getaway with Owen and neighbor/friend Lupita, I had some quiet hours for reflection and experienced a kind of epiphany, recognizing similar patterns of behavior among family members who experienced trauma as children.

Quiet camping spot amid vineyards of Valle de Guadalupe

I've studied, taught, and written (published) about trauma in recent years, yet failed to fully understand the trauma dynamics operating in my own family. I was too close to it all, and coping with my own pain of rejection.

With friends during a getaway in Valle de Guadalupe

I just ordered After the Tears: Helping Adult Children of Alcoholics Heal Their Childhood Trauma, but have already learned from other reading that traumatized children, as adults, tend to perceive assertiveness in others as anger or threat, and to isolate themselves when feeling anxious or fearing loss of control. The million dollar question is this: in times of disagreement or conflict, how does the assertive person who values emotional honesty, direct communication, and accountability relate to the traumatized person--whether spouse or friend or workmate? The short answer is to make accommodations for the sake of love, while supporting the healing of trauma in those ready to seek it. Herein lies hope.  I'm still learning, and welcome hearing your experiences.

Taken just after one of our rare, dust-settling rains!