Toothpaste Times

Yesterday I was reminded of an everyday magnificence. Toothpaste.  It's incredible really.  And while it often gets pushed to the bottom of the shopping list directly below deodorant and directly above toilet bowl cleaner, I believe there is much we can learn from such a seemingly insignificant item.  (Insignificant except for the fact, of course, that it's role in keeping gingivitis and periodontal disease and even halitosis at bay is irreplaceable).

So let's talk toothpaste for a minute.  It comes in a tube.  Or some form of a semi-pliable box shaped container.  Or a pump.  It tastes like mint.  Or cinnamon.  Or fruit.  Or some combination of the above.  It is pasty.  Or gel-like.  Or something.....but what is the most significant attribute of toothpaste?  What is inside the tube or semi-pliable box or pump is exactly what the label says-toothpaste.  As I'm thinking about this, I'm wondering what it would be like if the toothpaste tycoons of the world united in a collaborative effort to baffle the world's toothpaste-consuming population.  What if...instead of placing a minty, germ-annihilating paste inside their tubes, the toothpaste tycoons decided to utilize one of the world's most prevalent substances- thick, brown, wet, gooey mud.  You know, just like you used to make mud pies with when you were a kid.  What if....during your sleepy-eyed morning routine you pulled out your tube of toothpaste, flipped open the cap, gave it a good squeeze and....WHAT?????

Hmm.  I wonder what that would be like?  What if the most significant attribute of toothpaste- its consistency to be exactly what the label says it is- could no longer be trusted?  Huh.  Just wondering.  Ok ok...there is more to my toothpaste deliberations than the mud-laden conspiracy of the toothpaste tycoons.  The speculation that currently heckles my mind is this: Am I toothpaste?

While I wouldn't mind smelling like spearmint or possessing the ability to single-handedly eradicate the likelihood of gum disease, I'd like to dig a little deeper.  My question is this: Do my insides match my outsides?  Do my characteristics match my label?  While unfortunately my label may change from time to time (which is another discussion altogether), the label I hope to wear would read as such:

Megan Taylor
Pursuing purpose and love...living as if Jesus is the point.  Wife.  Sister.  Friend.  Disciple.  Lover of truth....


But when my cap is flipped open and I'm given a good squeeze...is this what comes out?  Do I smell like mint?  Or a landfill?  Am I a smooth paste?  Or a gritty mixture?  Am I pursuing purpose and love with everything...counting all as rubbish for the sake of Christ- truly making Him the point?  Hmm.  Maybe sometimes.  Maybe not.  And most of the time, my insides probably look a lot like mint-chocolate chip ice cream...a little toothpaste mixed with a little mud.  But as I sit here tonight with my tube of Colgate Total Whitening by my side I wonder...how can I make toothpaste my reality? 

Finally....and Forever....

Sweet Friends and Family…

First of all, I would like to apologize for my crazy delay in sending this letter out to you.  I have had the chance to speak with some of you about our trip to Haiti…and some of you have perused our pictures on facebook and have caught glimpses of what our Haiti experience was like.  The truth is, I have hesitated writing this letter.  For the past 3 months, I have had “Haiti Letter” as a reminder on my phone, and every time I sit down to dispense my words onto paper, I freeze.  Because the truth is, words are simply not enough. 

Words cannot describe the eyes of so many Haitian faces, empty of everything but desperation. Words cannot describe the Haitian streets- lined with rubble and brokenness- and among them thousands upon thousands of beautiful people, living in complete loss. Words cannot describe the conditions of the tent cities or the walls of photos surrounding them- where individuals and families gather, still hopeful that they will find their loved ones.  Nope, words do not do justice here.  But in the midst of this, I want to remember what I wrote to you before we had stepped foot out of the airplane in Port-Au-Prince.  I want to remember my declaration to you…

So…. I say....let’s be different.  Let’s flip the coin.  What if there is more?  What if…on the other side of all of this pain and suffering and hurt and loss...is hope and love and healing and redemption?  What if tear-stained faces can become beacons of hope; if piles of rubble can become a testament to something hugely beautiful?  Because if the Lord is indeed close to the brokenhearted, His presence must simply consume Haiti.  So much so that your lungs are encapsulated by Him with each and every breath, that your hands brush His with each movement.  And as that beautiful picture illuminates the intricacies of my clouded mind, my heart begins to beat faster...the corners of my mouth begin to turn up into a smile...and the deepest being within me begins to dance!

Because on the other side of the coin…words cannot describe the embrace of an orphan child, or the smile on his face when he realizes you are there for love.  Words cannot describe the excitement on the faces of those living in a small Haitian community when a new home is erected in their neighborhood.  Words cannot describe the faith of the Haitian pastor who has seen nothing but devastation but continues to believe that the Lord will provide. 

The trip was absolutely incredible!  We entered into this beautiful country without knowing what our time would look like, but trusting that the Lord’s plan was bigger than ours.  Upon our initial arrival, we were instantly greeted by the incredible team at Thirst No More, and hopped into vans to head to our home for the week.  The ride to the Thirst No More house must have been at least an hour, but silence was the primary sound as we were humbled by the brokenness of our surroundings- tent cities, buildings in shambles, streets lined with Haitian people selling bananas and sugar cane and anything else their family may have been able to produce.  By the time we had reached the Thirst No More house, the love story between my heart and this beautiful country had already begun. 

In the days that followed, my heart only became more and more captivated by this incredible people.  We had the privilege of spending significant amounts of time at 3 different orphanages in Haiti. The differences between them were stark, and my heart wrenched with pain as we observed some of the conditions there.  The children, however, were incredible!  And it is these children that continue to capture my heart.  During the course of our week in Haiti we held them, laughed with them, played with them, cried with them, sang with them, and shared the love of Christ with them.  The words “I love you”, uttered in Creole into my ear by a young Haitian boy when we departed his orphanage will always remind my heart of the time we spent there. 

Our team also had the opportunity to build a house for a young Haitian family that had lost their home when the earthquake struck in January.  The home was much like what we would consider to be a “storage shed”, a 10x10 structure created with plywood and a tin roof.  Soon after we started the project, our team learned that this new house would soon become ‘home’ to a single mom and her 5 children.  Realizing that 6 Haitian people would be residing in a space smaller than my guest bedroom sent a dagger through my heart- yet they were so incredibly thankful, and many of the neighboring families stopped by during our work to ask whether we could build one for them as well.  This completely blew my mind (and continues to do so) as I ponder the incredible excess of my life….a life in which I often  compare myself to others and think “if only I could have more.” 

I could speak for hours about how this trip has challenged my heart.  It has challenged the very principles by which I live and has convicted my spirit as I realize more and more that all of life comes down to just one thing…..To Know Jesus, and to make Him known.  Nothing else matters.  I am still grappling with this idea and processing how this is to make a practical, tangible difference in the way I live my life…and in the way Nic and I live our lives together.  If you ever have the urge to hear more about our trip or about this idea, please give us a call or shoot us an email.  We would love share more stories with you and to tell you of how the Lord is guiding our hearts.

Thank you…thank you…thank you for making this trip a possibility for us.  Thank you for  your incredible support both financially and prayerfully as we embarked on this journey- a journey which I believe is far from complete.  Another thing we have realized from this trip is simply the magnificence of the body of Christ, and you all have been a huge part of that for us.  Thank you.  As we go from here, Haiti is still heavy on our hearts.  We are currently praying and thinking through our role in ministering to this nation, and are praying through the possibility of future trips, projects etc.  Again if you have any questions about this, we would love to chat!  Thanks again for being our community and for loving us.  We are truly blessed!

Nic and Megan Taylor

**Feel free to check out our pictures on facebook, or contact us here:

nic.and.megan@gmail.com
479-903-2478

Verbal spewage, late night runs, and spasticity

Today was one of those days.  No...not one of those days filled with melancholic interactions and trivial frustrations that should be accompanied by a characteristically despondent soundtrack infused with the likes of Johnny Cash, Radiohead, and Death Cab....Nope, not that kind of day.  Today- was one of those days when words aren't enough.  When no combination of metaphors and adjectives and discombombulated sentence structures could possibly reflect the reality of Megan in this moment.  Still, words are all I know.  And it's funny, because it is precisely those days when words are not enough that seem to be dictated by words more than ever.  Today was no exception.  Recognizing that my words would be inadequate, I spent most of my day alternating between the state of absolute silence and that of complete and chaotic verbal spewage. (Put another way, I talked. Way. Too. Much.)  It's almost as if my addiction to words has become so fierce that when they just aren't cuttin' it, my heart gets so soaked with the reality of me that I lose all sense of direction and social normalcy and turn into this goobery conglomoration of spastic-ness.  And so tonight, because I cannot possibly squeeze a tiny camera far enough into my arteries to take a picture of my heart for you, a goobery congolomoration of spastic-ness it is.  (And I promise, I will try to de-spasticize as much as possible. :)

I just got back from a late-night run.  It is 12:23 am.  I know what you may be thinking, "Megan, what are you doing running by yourself at midnight!  So not safe...".  Yep, tis true.  Each time I lace up my shoes and step out of my house at a time when most are unlacing their shoes and slipping into bed, the often hidden common sense Megan emerges from the depths to inform me that I am making an unsound decision. Still, I choose to consistently defy common sense Megan's authority and step out of the house anyway.  It's a habit that my often over-crowded schedule (and utter perfection of the art of procrastination) has induced, and one that I just can't seem to squelch. 
For me, these late night runs have become much more than that which allows me to feel a little less guilty every time I grab an extra brownie.  (Which, as most who know me would say, is every time).  These runs have become an escape from the traffic of life.  A small chunk of time when I can embrance the spasticity of my being and attempt to deconstruct the mess that has accumulated in my mind.  On those rare days when words are not enough, these runs become especially enticing to me.  Tonight's run was perfect.  The temperature was ideal.  It was quiet.  I passed only a single car throughout the entire duration.  My legs weren't cramping.  Perfect.  And before long...the deconstruction began...

In the midst of my verbal spewage today, there were a few conversational moments that captured my heart.  That casually offered reminders that I didn't know I so desperately needed. As I talked with a friend this afternoon, our conversation wandered to a chat about times of change and uncertainty.  We talked a bit about the perpetual difficulty that accompanies our attempts to relinquish control...which I believe has almost always reigned as my number one demise.  And as we talked, I was reminded once again of the truth that has become my stronghold over this past year: that the Lord is enough.  As our conversation meandered away from this topic and my afternoon (and verbal spewage) continued on, my spastic mind simply could not separate itself from this time...

As my feet continued to pound the pavement along the streets of Centerton tonight, this thought was central.  The Lord is enough.  The Lord is enough. The Lord is enough. The Lord is enough.  What does that mean?  Not literally.  Not semantically.  But truly.  Wake up in the morning, throw my blue jeans on and jump in my car mean.  Dinner with a friend mean.  Listen to the heartbreak of another mean.  Live my life mean.  As it would turn out, today was more than just a words are not enough day.  It was a get smacked upside the head with a dose of who I really am day. And so these realities began to permeate my mind....I am a worrier.  I am a procastinator.  I am a liar.  I often talk way too much...and then worry myself crazy the rest of the day with my unnecessary words.  I often hurt those I love.  I am driven by many perfectionistic tendencies, but often mask them with my laid-back approach to life.  I am prideful.  I am jealous.  I get my feelings hurt much easier than I will allow you to think.  I....my friends....am broken. 

While the reailty of the brokenness of humanity is something I have slowly been learning to accept over past months, it is a reality I have been reluctant to lay over my own life.  It has been relatively easy to observe the brokenness of humanity in the faces of the children and families I see at work everday.  In the piles of rubble and delapidated buildings that line the streets of Haiti.  But despite the brokenness I have observed in the lives of others, I have avoided removing the casings that have for so long masked the brokenness of my own heart.  Why?  Because it's easier with them on.  It's easier for me to pick a different colored cast for each part...believing that I look much better adorned with fiberglass of various colors.  But what I don't realize is that when a cast is left on for too long, the skin begins to discolor and the muscle begins to atrophy.  And long before I may realize the damage, the effects may become far-reaching. 

And so tonight, my friends, my spastic-ness has given me a picture of me. Cast-less me.  Broken me.  But it has also given me a much greater understanding of the Lord's enoughness.  Enough.  Like nothing else matters, enough.  Like no matter what, enough.  Like when financial burdens threaten and relationships change and life is full of pain, enough.  And most of all, enough to cover my brokenness.  My shortfalls.  My days of verbal spewage and moments of complete silence...and then the time I spend worrying about them.  Enough.  And as I sit here tonight...legs weary and shirt sweaty and eyes tired from a long day and a good run, it is this truth that I cling to.  Because no matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to be enough on my own.  And even if I could, I'm pretty sure my urge to practice the art of procrasination will not remain dormant for long. :) 

Mudlingers...

Howdy folks!  Yep, I am a blog slacker.  These are some thoughts I had started to write down as I have continued to process the idea of riding the "bike of love"...so sorry I'm positing it a little late!  Also, we returned from our trip to Haiti about a week ago....more on the trip coming soon!!! :)

Northwest Arkansas has boasted some pretty beautiful weather this week.  If you have ever spent much time with me, then you probably know that I am a warm weather freak.  A sunshine junkie.  Addicted to the feeling of the sun's warm rays beating down upon my face. (And, albeit the warnings of many a doctor...I am more than slightly addicted to a nice tan).  When the sun comes up and the temperature gauge rises above the 70 degree mark, my little heart leaps for joy and I literally have to make a conscious effort not to get up out of my seat and run outside.  Or at least stare out my window all day.  (If I'm honest, I have to admit that sometimes my inner warm weather wiggle worm gets the best of me, and my struggle then becomes summoning enough will power to get myself back inside to finish the workday). 

Monday was a particularly pefect day- 75 and sunny without a cloud in the sky. The birds were chirping, a warm breeze was blowing ever so slightly, and I managed to turn the space heater in my office off before 11am for the first time since I can remember (this, my friends, is quite a feat!).  As the end of the workday neared, my mind began to postulate all possible options for enjoying the afternoon sunshine.  Take a nap under a tree?  Go for a run?  And then- duh!  Motorcycle ride!  I sent a quick text to my hubby, who swiftly obliged my request to hop on our motorcycles and cruise down to Fayetteville for dinner.  And of course, we elected Fayetteville's finest restaurant...the one where they serve the most scrumptious Chicken Rigatoni ever to be created....Noodles!  (Noodles is where we had our first date, is one of my favorite restaurants, and holds lots of sweet memories for me.)  Considering my deep-seeded fear of riding my headstrong Honda Rebel on the freeway, we charted out our course of side roads, and hit the pavement!

It was a beautiful ride.  Not too hot, not too cold...perfect.  Just me and my husband taming the streets with our magnificent two-wheeled maneuvering machines.  On Monday, the ride was easy.  Smooth.  Painless and anxiety-free. (And, of course, the chicken rigatoni was better than perfect.) And this got me thinking- wouldn't it be nice if my rides on my "bike of love" were like that?  Painless and anxiety-free?  If everywhere my bike took me was warm and sunny and perfect? Yes please!  Because sometimes...on days when I do rally up enough courage to hop on the bike....it really is perfect and sunny and painless and anxiety free.  And then sometimes...it is....well....not.

Last Saturday marked day 4 of having my very own motorcycle, and I was pumped!  Nic and I had picked it up in Fayetteville on a Wednesday night, and Northwest Arkansas' erratic rainy weather had kept me from riding it for 4 WHOLE days!  We have some friends who had entered their 1970 Camaro into a car show that Saturday, and we had been planning to ride our bikes up to the show to join in the festivities.  While I am ordinarily an optimistic person and genuinely like most every person I have met, I have this thing against weathermen.  I can't explain it- but they push my buttons and light my fuse more often than any other underpaid, overrated, prime-time television pretty face I have ever seen!  This Saturday was no different.  What did my underpaid, overrated, prime-time television, pretty face weatherman promise me?  Sunshine!  And when I awoke on Saturday morning with an excited heart and hopeful spirit....what did I see?  Rain!  Rain!  Rain!  And more....Rain! Yep, rain.

I have to admit that my heart sank more than just a little bit when I peered out the window to the west and noticed the ominously dark clouds headed in our direction.  We stuck it out at home a little longer than we had originally planned, hoping that somehow the clouds would clear and the sky would brighten and we could make the 30 minute trip to Gateway, AR on our bikes.  When lunchtime finally rolled around, we reluctantly hopped into Nora (my often under appreciated Nissan Versa) and hit the road, leaving our glimmering two-wheeled rides behind. 

As Nora navigated the wet and rainy curves of Hwy 62, I received a smile-inducing text from my friend letting me know that the sun had indeed decided to peek its head out from behind the clouds in Gateway!  We had planned to head to church after the carshow, and by some stroke of luck, the rain had dissipated by the time we headed back home to get ready. I somehow managed to convince my sweet husband that since we didn't get to ride our bikes to the carshow, we simply needed to ride them church.  (Mostly, I was just excited that I had a new bike, and that I hadn't had much of a chance to peruse Northwest Arkansas on the open road as of yet).

We left for church slightly earlier than we normally would, conceding that those beautiful white clouds we could see in the distance just might be slightly more precocious than we were predicting.  The clouds did not hide their precociousness for long, and by the time we had reached the half-way point of our journey, rain began to fall.  Luckily, because of my utter dislike of all things wet and cold (except, of course, for ice cream), I had hopped on my bike prepared- armed with a gore-tex jacket and water-resistant shoes.  The precocious clouds continued their precociousness until we reached church, though we were fortunate enough to avoid what the clouds must have been conspiring as we rode- a complete and unmitigated downpour that instantly enveloped all of Northwest Arkansas the moment my water-resistant shoe entered the building. 

Luckily clouds (especially Northwest Arkansas clouds) often seem particularly concerned with making the most of their time, and this occasion was no exception.  The precocious clouds wasted no time dumping their contents on the unsuspecting residents of Rogers, Arkansas, and were kind enough to have completed this process by the time church was over.  Tired and half-way expecting another precocious cloud to show it's ugly face, my hubs and I hopped on our road-conquering, hard-core Hondas and headed home. 

Much of my motorcycle riding thus far has proven rather uneventful, which is something I have been quite thankful for.  I have restricted most of my riding to back roads and sunny days, hoping to bypass all possibilities of distractions or unexpected obstacles.  This particular Saturday night, for the most part, proved no different.  We slowly made our way home, mastering the dark and damp roads with ease.  As we turned left onto the highway that would take us home, I noticed a rather large truck headed in our direction.  My heart began to beat a little faster, and my hands tightened their grip on my handlebars.  While driving next to particularly large vehicles generally does elicit a heightened sense of anxiety within me, I was unprepared for what happened.  Splash!  Swoosh!  What???  The truck had driven through what I am sure was Northwest Arkansas' largest puddle of muddy water, and had managed to completely coat my entire body as well as that of my bike in a yucky, muddy wet mess.  Thankfully I was able to wipe the shield of my helmet clean enough to see for the remainder of the trip home, but I was NOT a happy camper!


You see, this particular Saturday did not quite go as planned.  I didn't get to ride to the show.  I was wet.  I was muddy.  My bike was muddy.  I had finally made the choice to ride, and the world around me seemed to be doing anything it could to thwart this joy.  You see, more often that not, I feel like this is what it's like when we make the decision to hop on the bike.  When we choose to put ourselves out there and puruse our purpose of love.  There's mud.  There's rain.  There are a million things that keep us from even garnering the courage to hop on the bike in the first place.  And then....even when we are able to strap on our helmets and hit the road... even then... we are splattered with mud.  We are trampled on.  We are hurt.  We are broken.

So, what do we do with this mud?  Do we simply choose not to ride on the rainy days?  That's one option.  But what if the mud is just a part of the ride?  What if, in order to become a real 'biker' (I'm talkin' a chap wearin', throttle bustin', leather clad kinda biker) we choose the ride, no matter what the conditions?  You see, part of me was a little proud when I got home and took off my mud-streaked helmet and admired my newly mud-splattered bike.  It was almost as if I had entered a whole new level of biker-ness...I had been through the mud...and had come out on the other side.  What if love is a little bit like this?  What if the mud brings us to a whole new level of 'love-ness?' Because I believe it does.  That when we get back up and brush it off...and still choose to hop back on the bike...we are choosing love in a new way.  And so, I'll keep riding.  I'll wipe down my helment and rinse off my jacket and jump back on.  Because the ride is worth it.  Purpose is worth it. Love...is worth it.

It's Haiti, y'all!

Sweet Friends and Family…

Psalm 34:18 says, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted, and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
If ever there has been a community filled with brokenheartedness; If ever there have been families whose spirits have been crushed; If ever there have been hearts that are troubled and are searching for more- I believe they would be found within Haiti’s borders.  I realize that I don’t need tell you of the earth-shattering events that took place in Haiti on January 12, 2010.  The 250,000 lives that were lost….the more than 1 million Haitians that found themselves homeless.  You’ve seen the pictures, heard the stories and….if you’re like me…..you have probably tired at times of hearing the devastating statistics and horrible depictions of the broken lives of those currently living in one of the world’s most impoverished countries.

So…. I say....let’s be different.  Let’s flip the coin.  What if there is more?  What if…on the other side of all of this pain and suffering and hurt and loss...is hope and love and healing and redemption?  What if tear-stained faces can become beacons of hope; if piles of rubble can become a testament to something hugely beautiful?  Because if the Lord is indeed close to the brokenhearted, His presence must simply consume Haiti.  So much so that your lungs are encapsulated by Him with each and every breath, that your hands brush His with each movement.  And as that beautiful picture illuminates the intricacies of my clouded mind, my heart begins to beat faster...the corners of my mouth begin to turn up into a smile...and the deepest being within me begins to dance! 

I believe that Haiti’s story is just beginning to unfold.  The Haitian people are responding to this disaster with painful curiosity- in ways that demonstrate nothing but the truth of the Lord's presence in the midst of brokenness.  A nation rooted in a religious history of mysticism and voodoo practices, Haiti has turned primarily to its voodoo priests in the midst of crisis.  But something different is stirring.  Something new.  Realizing that they themselves cannot answer the 'why' questions regarding the nation's recent events, even the voodoo priests are looking to the Christian church for answers.  Yep...my friends... He's breathable...He's touchable. And He's there!  

Nic and I were recently presented with the opportunity to go and be a part of what the Lord is doing in Haiti, and we couldn’t be more excited!  On June 11, we will board a plane to Haiti with 9 others from our home church- Fellowship Bible Church of Northwest Arkansas.  “What will we be doing?” you may ask.  We will be partnering with an incredible Christian aid organization called Thirst No More, who currently has teams on the ground working in Haiti.  Check them out at www.thirstnomore.org.  So you may still be wondering...“No, what will you really be doing?"  Well?  Laughing and loving and praying and sharing and working and serving and building and giving and….once again…..loving.  Just as the needs of the Haitian people continues to change with each passing day, so does our itinerary...making the details of our trip slightly tricky to spell out.  We may be playing with orphans, building homes, helping construct temporary housing (as many are still sleeping on the streets and in tents), working to create clean water solutions, or delivering basic necessities to those who have none.  We may be entering into villages that have yet to be touched since the earthquake.  We may be praying with those who have lost their entire family…whose only question is “why?” We may be loving on the man whose hope has been lost with the home he has worked his entire life to keep.  Our time in Haiti will likely look a lot of different ways, but if I've come to know anything in the past 25 years...it's that God knows what’s up!

Another truth I have been reminded of time and time again is that God’s plans are much larger than anything I could conjure up in my tiny head.  His view is panoramic, while mine is likely to that of a 200 year-old pin hole camera. And I am so, so excited that the Lord has made Haiti a part of our journey!  We would love for you to join with us in prayer as we prepare for our time in Haiti.  We ask for prayers for safety- for a hedge of protection not only around our bodies- but around our spirits and minds as well as we seek to saturate every thought, word, and action with the love of Christ.  For softened and guided hearts- both for our team and for the Haitian people- that the Lord will prepare conversations and interactions where He can intercede.  And most of all, we pray that ultimately...whatever happens is what the Lord wants to happen.  Whether encouraging, challenging, uncomfortable or exciting, that it will all be His! I plan to post regular prayer updates on this blog, and invite you to visit us often here on the world wide web. (You can also subscribe via email at the top right-hand side of the page here).  We are also developing a prayer team through a personalized online portal we have created.  We woud love for you to join with us in prayer via this prayer team.  If this sounds like your cup-o-tea, please click the link at the bottom of this post, and it'll take you there! :)

The total cost of our trip will be around $2700.  Knowing that the Lord has a panoramic view and that He is way rockin', we know He has His hand in all aspects of this trip, including our finances!  Much of the cost will help to cover travel expenses as well as all of the project supplies we will use while we are there. If you feel you would like to join with us financially, please check out the link at the bottom of this post. Nic and I are beyond excited, and would love to chat more about what our time in Haiti will look like!  I have a feeling we have many pictures and stories in our near future, and we can't wait to share them with you!  Thank you for  loving us.  For praying for us.  And for standing with us.  We are beyond blessed!

And here...my friends....is the link to our online portal: Taylors in Haiti!

Motorcycle Madness...

There is something about the written word that ignites my heart. Oftentimes when I speak, I feel as though my words become nothing more than a muddied conglomeration of disorganized chaos- thrown to the wind just like a handful of birdseed, each piece landing apart from the others.....making it a little difficult to determine it was a handful of birdseed in the first place. Writing is different.  There is an exhilarating freedom that envelopes my entire being as my fingers grip my pen (or...in this case....strike the keys) and words flow out of the depths and crevices of my heart and soul.  Sometimes I wonder where these words come from and why they want to get out- fearing my ridiculousness will be evident to any who dares peruse them.  Still, this freedom calls after my heart.  It is this freedom that I have missed as of late- I have missed allowing my fingers to roam over my keyboard as I project my musings into the vast unknown that is the World Wide Web.  My lack of writing hasn't been for lack of words, for Rico has been running faster than ever these past few weeks!  Rather, the Lord has decided to grate my path for me, and has graciously allowed me some time to get used to the softer footing.

Every now and then, I am blessed to cross paths with someone whose love for words parallels mine.  Or more accurately, my intense and all-encompassing infatuation with words. And realness.  And truth.  And when this happens, I feel an awkward smile emerge across my face as I realize there are more of us word-crazies in the world than I thought.  But from this discovery comes more than an awkward smile.  I am often challenged by the words of my crazy-authentic, word-crazy friends.  Challenged to be a better writer.  Challenged to be more genuine.  And, oftentimes, challenged to kick my butt into gear...to be ok with my brokenness...or to press deeper into the Lord. 

One particular friend whose words often challenge and encourage my heart, writes a knock-your-socks-off blog at http://www.yourpurposeislove.com/.  If you haven't meandered over to the world of YPiL previously, be sure to check it out.  Each morning around 10:30am, I seem to have a 'freeze' moment.  Any possibility of productivity is shattered and my brain enters space-out mode.  Or rather, non-work mode.  (I say non-work mode because space out mode implies a complete shut down...while in reality my mind just wants a break from being present in conversations with families that visit the CAC and organizing file info).  It had been awhile since I had visited my friend's blog, and my little fingers just couldn't seem to keep from typing her URL into my address bar.  Realizing there were a few posts I hadn't yet read, I simply scrolled to the middle of the page and started reading.  "What a Ride" was the title of the post.  Because my husband and I had ventured to Fayetteville on Monday night in search of an additional motorcycle to add to our repertoire of toys, the title stood out to me.

As I read my friend's words, Rico started walking.  Jogging.  Running.  Sprinting at full speed!  Before long, he had recruited several of his friends too, and my mind became a tiny hamster gym....one like the Micro Green Gym in Portland where the whole thing is powered by the people running on the treadmills.  I felt like Rico was running my mind.  My crazy, metaphor-laden thoughts revealed themselves as word vomit in an email to my friend, followed by directionless car-ride conversations and countless moments of thought and prayer.  As I sit here now, more than 24 hours later, Rico is still running and I am still struggling to unpack what I've learned.  How I've been convicted.  What I'm going to do about it.  In her post, my friend writes about a recent mountain biking experience.  She works close to a bike shop, and has spent some time taking the bikes out for test rides on occasion.  After some testing, she decided it was time to take the plunge- to hop on a mountain bike and fly down a real trail with dirt and rocks and trees and stuff.  After struggling with balance and control, she soon realized that by keeping her eyes focused on what was ahead and letting the bike take her there instead of focusing on what was in front of her, she was able to conquer the trail with greater ease. And as I sat there staring at my computer screen, envisioning my friend flying down a hill on a mountain bike...being slapped in the face by branches and gripping tightly to the handlebars, I started thinking.  And thinking.  And thinking.

Because my little heart is exploding with excitement about the possibility of a new motorcycle, my friend's mountain biking metaphor quickly evolved into one involving throttles and engines and exhaust and....feeling completely out of control.  You see, as the weather warms and my insatiable desire for adventure explodes with it, I have become more and more determined to unleash the biker babe within me! Problem- although beautifully shiny and seemingly graceful, there are many things about our motorcycle that terrify me!  (Nic and I have been sharing a motorcycle since November.  And although he rides it much more frequently than I do, the little time the Shadow and I have spent together has been pretty freakin' impactful).  It's powerful. It's big. And it makes my full-faced neon yellow helmet wobble in fear. Literally.

I usually wake up to the rather repulsive screeching of my alarm each morning around 5:45...fighting to keep my eyelids open and making the conscious choice to pull the covers back from my shoulders. (If I lay there without making this choice almost immediately, it is likely that I will fall back asleep- making for a much crankier and much more frustrated Megan when I finally awake at....if I'm lucky...7am). For the past several weeks, much of my morning shower time has been devoted to convincing myself to ride my motorcycle to work. I slap on my cheesy smile and inspirational speaker voice and tell myself that I can do it- that it's not that scary and that the traffic won't be that bad this early in the morning. I think about how sweet it would be to show off my shiny bike to my coworkers, and to walk through the front door of my office with my neon helmet under my arm.  "Today is the day" I say to myself. But then I start blow drying my hair. And putting on my makeup. And thinking about the fact that when I get off work, traffic won't be as 'not so trafficky' as it is at 6:45 am. And so I decide...maybe today isn't the day after all.

You see, I'm perfectly comfortable riding my bike in my subdivision. In the middle of the day. Going less than 40mph. It's familiar. It's comfortable. I know that there will be no unexpected potholes or semi-trucks. If I run out of gas, I know where to go. Out on the open road, cruising down the highway at a speed of 60mph...with semis and construction and pedestrians, I freeze. I think what scares me most about my bike is that I feel completely out of control.  Like I have surrendered my life and all that I am to the 400 pound heap of moving metal below me. I am terrified that I'll hit a rock or take a turn too sharply and I won't be able to control it....and that the consequences will be irreparable. One thing that was over-emphasized in the motorcycle skills class that I reluctantly submitted myself to in November was that a motorcycle naturally wants to stand up straight. It has been engineered in such a way that even without a rider on it...you could start the engine, clasp down the throttle and let it go...and it would continue to accelerate and drive straight until it ran out of gas (or, of course, until it slammed into something). Yet I am absolutely convinced I am going down every single time I make a right-hand turn.

I absolutely love the title of my friend's blog....Your Purpose is Love. Because it's true. We were made for nothing less- to love the Lord...to love others, and for dang sure to receive the perfect love of the Father. To dream big and to live a life that is much fuller and richer than most of us believe is possible. But sometimes I think that living a life of recklessly pursuing love looks (and feels) a little bit like me riding my motorcycle down the highway. It's freakin' terrifying! I feel as though I am holding on for dear life....at the complete mercy of something so intricate and beautiful and foreign. Holding onto something bigger than me...knowing that I am incapable of controlling it on my own... and simply trusting that the Creator's ingenious engineering will keep me upright. I'm simply terrified of twisting that throttle, believing that the next pothole or tight turn will have me flipping over the guardrail at high speeds...surely necessitating high-dollar surgeries and months in the hospital. I'm afraid that the damage will indeed be irreparable. That when I choose to love recklessly, the damage to my relationships, to my lifestyle, or to my heart will alter me forever. That when I finally come out of my coma after my extensive surgeries, I will be a completely different Megan than I was before I hopped on the 'bike of love." It is this fear, I believe, that keeps me from hopping on my bike most days- choosing instead to drive my safe and reliable Nissan Versa to work. 

But as I sit here this afternoon...I'm wondering whether my inevitable trip over the guardrail may be worth it. I'm sure I could continue riding safely through my subdivision, enjoying the sight of a cute puppy or father and daughter playing catch every once in a while.  It would be fun and safe and nice.  But what would I be missing out there on the open road?  Would I miss the smell of orange blossoms as I cruise down the Pacific Coast Highway?  The magnificence of the Grand Canyon and the stateliness of the Rocky Mountains?  The sheer hugeness of Texas and the Cajun flavor of the Louisiana Bayou?  And are these things I am willing to sacrifice for my 'safeness'?  The more I realize just how huge our country is, the more I think not.  And like maybe God is an incredible plastic surgeon or something...and although I may look like a different Megan after my spills, each surgery may bring me closer to what the Lord's idea of Megan Taylor is.  And after I've healed....I will always have the memories that my highway experiences have brought me.  I'm reminded of what Scripture says in Jeremiah 18:4. "But the pot He was shaping from the clay was marred in His hands; so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as seemed best to Him." I am frickin' marred, that's for sure. And if I choose to hop on the bike of love, chances are I will end up with a few more scars. But even the nastiest lump of clay is not lost in the hands of the potter. And even the most broken Megan can still be formed into a useful vessel.

And so I want to ride that freakin' bike. All day. Every day. Every second of every minuscule moment.  I want it to hurl me down the highway on unfamiliar roads at high speeds.  I want to smell the orange blossoms and see the mountains and get lost in Texas farmland.  Because I'm tired of my neighborhood.  I'm tired of hearing all of the other bikes fly down the freeway- wondering what it would be like if I had the mojo to be hauling it down the freeway too.  So today's the day.  I'm strappin' on my neon yellow helmet, grabbing my gloves, and hitting the pavement. Because although my Nissan is safe, my bike is worth it. It's worth it despite the possibility (and really, inevitability) of my fall.  Love, my friends, is worth it.

I just might be crazy...

Brrrrr……it’s a little chilly this morning!  Fortunately, I am lucky enough to have the luxury of parking my beautiful red Nissan Versa, Nora, in my garage at night.  Truly her mother’s daughter, she doesn’t like the cold much and can be pretty cranky in the morning if she is stuck outside where it isn’t warm enough for her to get a good  night’s sleep.  As a mother who cares so deeply about her children, I always do my best to ensure that Nora always has a warm bed.  But while it is difficult for me to admit, I must divulge that my motives for keeping Nora warm are more than slightly narcissistic.  After all, when morning comes and my cold, tired hand swiftly turns the bronze doorknob granting me access to Nora’s lair, I am noticeably excited that I am able to sit in her seat without shivering so much that my knees knock together and it becomes unsafe for me to drive her.  (You may think I am exaggerating, but I’m sure my husband would be delighted to tell you about the small, bony icicles that slowly creep over to his side of the bed every night- despite the sweatpants, sweatshirt, and electric blanket that encompass them).

Fortunately, in spite of myself and my utter distaste for any temperature readings below 75…and thanks to my wonderful, too-often-neglected garage, I was able to coax myself out of bed, into the garage, and out with Nora this morning.  We made our first stop shortly thereafter, and picked up a friend on the way to work.  A few of us had decided to meet early to pray together this morning and, lucky for Nora, I was unmistakably looking forward to it! Most mornings, Nora has the privilege of hearing me complain about the busyness of my life or, if she’s lucky, I will simply sit in silence as my annoyingly heavy eyelids fight to stay open.  This morning however, my demeanor reflected a slightly different aura.

You see…have you ever seen a hamster run inside one of those wheel things?  You know, where they just go around and around and around and….around?  Well, I am joyous to disclose to you that I have been granted the opportunity to observe such a magnanimous feat many times.  In fact, I feel like there must be a tiny hamster in my brain right now- just running, and running, and running in circles.  (I know it’s crazy, but he’s in there!  And because he and I have spent so much time together lately, I have elected to give him a name.  Rico).  Since his arrival, Rico hasn’t ceased to demand my attention.  If I begin to turn my back on him, or contemplate purchasing other hamsters to join him, he just runs faster and harder.  He was running so fast this morning that I decided it was time to introduce him to my friends.  And you see, when I finally decide to share Rico, he doesn’t come out looking all cute and fuzzy and hamster-esque.  Nope.  In fact he doesn’t look like anything.  Rather, he sounds like a jumbled-mess of what? that can sort of be summed up as: “What would it look like to switch burdens with Jesus?”

 You see I can’t help but giggle at myself a little bit.  A chuckle maybe.  Ok….maybe a full out, belly busting laugh!  I mean, not only have I started naming the “hamsters” that are running through my mind, but I have also allowed myself to live a bit of irony as of late.  Exactly two weeks ago, I stumbled upon the thought that maybe I didn’t quite understand what Jesus meant when He asked us to “learn the unforced rhythms of grace” in Matthew chapter 11.  I asserted that maybe the backpack full of crap that I have been carrying is far too “heavy and ill-fitting” to be what the Lord has intended, and I decided to embark on a new leg of my journey in order to discover these “unforced rhythms of grace” that Jesus talks about.

No sooner had I typed these words, then I had decided to pick up more and more and more pebbles and toss them into my backpack.  It was almost as if some unconscious voice (I imagine it as a deep, scratchy, old grandma voice- almost like the wicked step-mother in Cinderella) inside of me was telling me- “Megan!  Megan!!!!  Listen to me you fool!  Your backpack is EMPTY, you little light-walking, free-living snot!  Where do you get off thinking that you are so special?  So special that you can just carry around an empty backpack while our backs are bending under the weight of these rocks?! What in the cottage cheese are you thinking??  Get your relaxed muscles back to work!  NOW!”  And just like my dog Riley when he feels like he is in trouble, I immediately obeyed.  I elected to leave behind the green pastures and quiet waters that David talks about in Psalm 23, and trudge out to the desert to pick up more boulders.  More pressures.  More burdens.

Let me say that again. I decided to put one foot in front of the other and trudge out to the hot, dry, dreary desert…and pick up pebble upon pebble, some of which I am sure were no more than petrified pieces of dog crap. I did it.  It was me.  This morning, I was reminded by a friend that my backpack of crap doesn’t fill itself.  (As I’m sure you have witnessed, crap can’t jump!) For something to end up in my backpack, I have to make the choice to put it there.  This is a new concept for me.  For as long as I can remember, I have had this vision of Jesus standing above me with a slingshot full of rocks, big rocks- aiming ever so carefully to make the seemingly impossible shot into my backpack thousands of miles below.  (But of course, because He’s Jesus, He makes it every time). Surely He must have undergone years of stealthy sniper training to be able to hit my backpack with such wondrous precision.  But as I sit here this morning, I realize that my fantastical image of a camo-wearing, sling-shot ripping Jesus could not be farther from the truth!  Why?  Call me crazy, but I guess I would have to say because He said so.  He said, right there in Matthew chapter 11, that He would not lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on me.  Well, there’s just one problem- this backpack has gotten so heavy and so ill-fitting that I can hardly stand it!  My back and shoulders ache from the pressure, and at this rate, I am sure to be the new hunchback of Notre Dame before I reach my 30th birthday.  How then, if Jesus said He wouldn’t lay any such thing on me…and the thing I am carrying couldn’t be heavier, could this backpack of crap be from Jesus?

So as I sit here, paper clip hanging out of the side of my mouth, knees shaking back and forth nervously, listening to the sound of a new floor being installed in my office…I wonder…what would it be like to switch backpacks with Jesus?  What if I finally elected to give my worry-ridden shoulders a rest?  For good?  There is something inside of me that tells me this is possible.  That rather than looking down from above aiming to hit my backpack with rocks, Jesus is standing right beside me, offering me a bag that is empty in exchange for my old backpack that has recently started to rip because of it’s continued use.  And if this is true, if there is really a place where I can meet and switch bags with Jesus- I’m in!  I both invite you to join my on this journey…and warn you that it may get a little messy.  But what the heck...

Game face and Riley and Saline and Stuff

As I drove home from class yesterday, after taking a midterm that successfully annihilated any possibility of me operating at full capacity for the remainder of the afternoon, I had one thing on my mind: Game Face. Yesterday marked the day of the year that I dread more than any other. The day for which I have specifically created a small compartment inside my brain labeled “Megan’s Optimistic willpower and Strength- Do not open until March 2nd.” I have been working on filling this compartment all year, knowing full well that my need for such optimistic willpower and strength will far outweigh any of my preconceived ideas of what the day may hold.

As I pulled into my garage, my mission was clear- gather all necessary items for game day, put on my uniform, and hit the road. It was go time. Well, at least until I remembered that I had to drop off some pictures at Wal-Mart, which was an obvious necessity. For the past few months, my husband and I have spent countless hours ensuring the complete overhaul of our living room- and I mean complete. Naturally, placing new and updated photos in our picture frames was to be the much-anticipated final step of this overhaul, which I simply could not wait another day for. So, Wal-Mart it was!

Sitting in front of the Fuji machine in Wal-Mart’s newly improved photo department, my mind was momentarily able to escape the certain chaos that awaited me. I finished ordering my pictures, all the while remaining painstakingly conscious of the time. I pulled my memory stick from the machine and quickly slipped it back into my purse. Knowing I didn’t want to be late, I quickly grabbed a cheap ink cartridge for our crazy-thirsty printer….found the shortest check-out line, and bolted out the door.

Back behind the wheel of my car, my mind returned to the inevitable fate that awaited me. I drove home to meet my husband and grabbed a few more necessary items before the two of us jumped back in the car. Necessary items? Check. Game face? Check. Teammate? Check. It was go time. The day was finally here, and it was time for the contents of my special compartment to be utilized. It was…my friends…tax day.

Tax day for me is like making the decision to get my dog neutered. It’s horrible. I look at Riley and realize that he has no idea what he is about to endure…yet it is inevitable. The day is fast approaching when he will be lured into a seemingly luxurious room with treats and friends and nice people wearing white coats…only to find that they are out to take something from him. Something that has become an integral part of his daily existence. Something, that makes him who he is. I feel like Riley on tax day. Like I am being lured into a nicely decorated room with well-meaning professionals whose teeth are too white to be real and who offer me candy and little trinkets for my time- like neon colored plastic cups for example. I LOVE neon colored plastic cups! They know how to lure me in. But then…before I have the chance to finish my 51st Werther’s Original…they tell me what I’m really there for. And as I sign my life away at the bottom of the page, suddenly my plastic neon cups just don’t seem worth it anymore. Yes, I loathe tax day. Fortunately, unlike Riley, I am able to take the next few months to rebuild my loss. Before I know it, I will be the same Megan Taylor I was on March 1st…pre tax day. Riley…my poor baby… isn’t so lucky.

But as I sit here today, typing out my tax day dance for the world to see, something inside of me is telling me that I sound more than a bit ridiculous. Not just because of my exaggerated use of adjectives or my lofty use of metaphor (comparing my predicament to my dog losing his manhood may not have been the most logical choice), but simply because I have actually chosen to denote a significant portion of this afternoon’s brain power to telling you about my experience. Because the fact that I have done so tells me much more about myself than I believe I am prepared to hear.

I have heard it said, “You can tell what is most important to a man by observing what he allocates his money…and most importantly, his time…to.” Hmm. And I have just spent more than a useful amount of time typing out a retrospectively trivial experience of mine. But I think what bothers me most is not that I took a break from work for a moment to divulge my complete and utter dislike of the American tax system, but that I have allowed tax day to hold a significant enough place in my life that I found it necessary to tell you about it. Because if I am being honest, I must admit that I am more like Riley than I would care to concede. Because when my accountant flashes her fake white teeth and highlights the always-larger-than-expected number at the bottom of my tax return…my stomach drops, my face heats up, and my eyes literally fill up with some type of saline-liquid. (Some would call it tears, but I’m just not ready to admit that quite yet.) Because just like the nice man in the white coat has taken something from Riley…something that made him who he is…something has been taken from me. Something (imagine me saying this through clenched teeth- because that is what it feels like), that has made me who I am.

And I hate that. I hate that they have taken it from me, yes. But more than that, I hate that I hate that they have taken it from me. I hate that I have failed at keeping my purpose true, and that I have succumbed to the American dream. The fact that signing the bottom of my tax return made my eyes liquidy produces the same effect now as I realize what that means. As I realize where my heart is. As I realize what my priorities are.

I say that I want my life to be about hope…but is it? To be about CHANGE (not pennies and nickels and dimes) but real and lasting change…but is it? And most importantly…I say that I want my life to be about love…but is it? Or is it about some deranged depiction of love that is so far removed from my purpose? Am I simply hiding behind my designer jeans and busy schedule…annoyed at the handicapped homeless man who can’t cross the street quick enough? Am I? I believe that I am. And forcing my fingers to type out those words brings forth the saline liquid once again. I believe that I am. And so, world, as I send my scattered and saline-infused thoughts out to you I ask…what can I do to change this? What can I do to remember my purpose and to return my focus to love? Because I don’t want to be annoyed at the homeless man anymore. I don’t want to spend an entire year filling up my special compartment for tax day. And most of all, I want to remember that there really is more to my tiny little life than I think.

Just Maybe...

It's that time again.  When the Lord graciously leads me to a point along my journey when my restless and ever-wandering mind begins to calm, and I am reminded of why I am here in the first place.  For a moment, I allow the trivialities of the day to slip through my fingers as my tightly clenched fist slowly begins to unfold. (Ok, if I'm honest, the Holy Spirit is probably doing a little finger-prying!) My lungs stretch to accommodate my unusually deep and intentional breath, and for a brief moment I feel as though I am falling into a trance as I- for the first time in weeks- finally allow the tension in my neck and shoulders to dissipate.  And as I sit here reflecting upon this incredible gift of rest, I can't help but wonder whether this is what it's supposed to feel like.  Whether this is what Jesus meant when He said...

"Are you tired?  Worn out?  Burned out on religion?  Come to me.  Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest.  Walk with me and work with me- watch how I do it.  Learn the unforced rhythms of grace.  I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you.  Keep company with me, and you'll learn to live freely and lightly." Matthew 11:29-30 (MSG)

Huh. Because those words He speaks in the beginning...those words that conjure up both unappealing and downright unpleasant reminders of my often melancholic life....could not be more accurate descriptors of the current Megan Taylor.  I am tired.  I am worn out.  I am way beyond being burned out on 'religion.'  And honestly, those are words I would rather not readily ascribe to myself.  As I sit here reclined, fingers striking my keyboard, I imagine that Superwoman- complete with a fully functional cape (including flying capabilities of course) and a flame resistant super flex outer layer- is standing over my shoulder, screaming at me to hold down the delete key indefinitely.  She's Superwoman, and she's pissed.  She's pissed because leaving these words here...these words that reveal the weariness behind my enthusiastic facade... almost eradicates her existence.  She's pissed because they confirm her increasing suspicions that she is nothing more than a plastic action figure- doomed to a life of being suffocated by the germ-infested hands of toddlers who's only question in life is whether she will survive after she and polly pocket are flushd down the toilet.  She's not real.  And more than that- I am not her, no matter how much I love x-ray vision goggles super-spandex body suits.

Those words?  Tired?  Worn out?  Burned out on religion?  Those are real.  And because those are real, well, I would guess that the 'unforced rhythms of grace' that Jesus talks about must be real too.  And I want to find them.  Why?  Because life is hard.  Because just maybe, the backpack of crap I am currently carrying is far more "heavy and ill fitting" than what I'm meant to carry.  And Because maybe, just maybe... there just might be more to this thing called life than we think.

**I just switched my blog URL, so for older posts, check out the ol' http://lifeofmegantaylor.blogspot.com/