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.
