On Training Wheels
O. weaves wet tire tracks across the shadowed black pavement, through the mirroring puddles full of silver and sunset. She sings like she always does when bright joy and inspiration meet — like baking soda and vinegar bubbling over the top, cleansing us all of our cynicism and hurry.
She points out the web of tracks while Ben hands me the steering wheel of his “race car,” an old red and yellow Fisher Price wonder we inherited from another seminary family; one that has endured the driving of four blonde little girls and continues to rumble on for our own kids now. And I remember how we found the big-wheel O. is riding in the seminary dumpster area. It quickly became the most “borrowed” item from our front porch. And we were sure to bring it with us here, to the parsonage in the fields.
I also remember when we first tried teaching O. how to ride a bike. It was another pink hand-me-down with the removable wheels, the kind that always prove a bit wobbly, especially for the cautious new drivers. We used the small bit of space available to us: a few narrow sidewalks, a steep downhill to the main street, and the adjoining parking lot with front bumpers bulging over the cement blocks.
The whole setting was less than ideal. We worked with her for weeks. The steering, pedaling, balancing, and overall emotional wellbeing was a difficult combination for us all. It brought self-doubt and fear out of O., and deep parenting questions for J. and I:
How much do we push her? When do we let her quit? What if she never gets the hang of it? Are we even doing this right?
It is in these moments that we realize the weight of our vocation, the one of marriage and family.* It reminds us of the God-like experience we get to step into as parents: to craft another’s given world, to be the voice of what is real, to claim the highest good. Its a bit of pressure, but two years later, watching O. ride and sing without care or thought or caution, I’m increasingly in awe of the goodness of the Father.
He models these difficult growing pains with holy love and patience, knowing just how to strengthen our souls in weakness, how to console us in failure, even how to pray for us. And while He never sends pain or doubt, he is always, always with us in it, knowing when we need a deep breath of courage or when its best to submit to the purifying tears.
The Father comes and leads and tends to us like a gracious parent who trots alongside a wobbly toddler, patient through a dozen seasons of toppling and terror, gracious all the way until we ride in His peace, until we become like Him in our thoughts and movements — until He is in our very nature.
As I finish these thoughts, I look up to see O. riding that same pink bike, suddenly without pants. And I chuckle at all the freedom she lives in, whirling through puddles with the pink clouds glowing behind the corn.
*This is not to say that any one vocation is more significant or important than any other. Singleness, celibacy, marriage/family, etc. is equally wonder-filled and good, and also unique in its own right.