ditches

When I was learning how to ride a bike, I kept falling in the ditch. I was adamant about riding without training wheels, so my father (such a patient saint) took them off before I was ready. He would drive the truck next to me as my five-year-old legs wobbled and jerked around and inevitably-- I always fell in the ditch. It was so gross, too. Scummy old water, filled with tad poles and blackberry vines dipping down, digging into my scrawny arms as I crawled onto the road. My dad would pull the bike out and we'd go home; I would sob uncontrollably. 

And we did that again and again and again. The same routine. Riding, falling, crying. This happens to all little kids, this routine. But I was falling into a DITCH. Filled with nasty dank water. 

But as expected, one day we made it around the whole block totally unscathed and it was the greatest day of my tiny life.

My dad and I are still doing that same routine, again and again. I'll send him texts saying, "Dad, I keep falling in the ditch!" and he pulls the bike out-- which is usually my negative/scared/arrogant/angry/confused/anxious/bitter attitude-- & says that he is praying for me.

Sometimes, I remind my parents to pray for me. And their response is the same: “how could you think that we are not praying for you, honey??” And I know there is a connection to be made here about letting someone you love free before they’re ready and watching with gritted teeth as they repeatedly drive themselves into a ditch and still sticking with them until they succeed; that there is a connection to be made about how this is the story we are all living and the story God has been telling to us since the beginning of forever, and will keep telling until the end of forever. And that we can take a little bit of comfort in that and be reassured that this is a block we will get around one day.