"Amy, you have to come out here and see this. She's doing it! I knew she could do it!" I yelled at my wife from the driveway as Lucy's smile was so big it lit up the neighborhood while dusk set in. I could see her confidence growing with each passing moment. I could see on her face that she was so proud of herself. I could see that she knew how proud we were of her, and I think maybe that was the main source of her unending smile.
It was a long and arduous journey to get to this point. It was a journey littered with small victories as well as set backs which almost ended the journey altogether. But now, the sense of accomplishment in overcoming the adversity and the exhilaration we were now experiencing made the journey worth it. Time wise it was a short journey--perhaps an hour in duration--but in terms of testing my patience as well as Lucy's mental endurance, it was a marathon. However, now we were able to celebrate the victory.
The journey began about 6pm on a late fall afternoon. It was a beautiful day with the sun shining and we feared it may be one of the last truly nice days of the fall. Earlier that day Lucy's younger brother, Eli, decided he was ready to learn to ride his bike on his own. He'd been really close to doing it before, but he decided that today was the day. For him it was as simple as me helping him get started and then letting go. He caught on in the blink of an eye. It took no time at all and he was zipping up and down our street on his little bike. Lucy was a completely different story.
Lucy had training wheels on her bike and up to this point had shown zero interest in learning to ride without them. In fact, she rarely attempted to ride even with the training wheels. She's always had an aversion to doing anything that required much physical exertion. Riding a bike just wasn't worth it to her . . . until little brother learned before her. Lucy's stubborn. It was on. She was ready to learn.
The only problem was that Lucy lacks a few things that are essential to learning to ride a bike: balance, coordination, patience and trust. Lacking one of those makes for a difficult task. Lacking all four leads to near-disaster.
It didn't start off well. I began by holding on to the back of her seat as she got used to peddling a little. It wasn't long before her lack of balance and coordination coupled with my high expectations led to a mini crash. It was in the grass, but it was a crash nonetheless. After a few moments of her chastising me for not catching her and I imploring her to give it another shot, she finally agreed to try again. This time I held on to the back of the seat with one hand and to the handlebars with the other. All the while I was absorbing the weight of her and the bike as I shuffled my feet side-to-side trying to keep up with her so I could be there to catch her when (not if) she began to fall. After about twenty minutes of this she began to catch on. Soon she was riding the bike while I shuffled next to her, just in case she began to fall. She caught on pretty fast and things were going smooth until I decided she needed to learn to get started on her own. Once you get the balance thing figured out it's easy to just ride the momentum of the bike once it's moving. It's a whole different story when it comes to getting started without help from a standstill position. This is when near-disaster ensued.
Lucy was convinced that she could do it on her own. She was convinced she knew exactly what to do. I tried to show her how to do it, but it only led to an escalating argument. She absolutely would not listen to me. I knew how to do it but she thought she knew better. I've done this before yet she didn't trust that I knew what I was doing (remember the whole trust thing that she lacks). After several feeble attempts ended with painful crashes she decided she had enough. It ended with her throwing down her bike in frustration and plopping down to cry in the grass. I tried to reason with her but it was to no avail. So I gave her space. It has to be her idea.
For several minutes I stood back and watched her toil in defeat. She was crying because she was in physical pain from falling so many times, but I also knew that she was feeling defeated because she felt like this was a challenge she simply could not overcome. I wanted to so badly to go over to her and try to talk her into trying again. I wanted so badly to tell her to just give up so I didn't have to watch her hurt herself anymore. I wanted so badly to pick her up and plop her down on the seat of the bike and force her to do it my way. But, as I said, it has to be her idea. So I simply decided to whisper.
"Lucy . . . sweetheart . . . I want to help you. I'm willing to help you. I know we can do this but you've got to let me show you how to do it," I pleaded. "Let me help you do this."
"It's too hard," she said, pausing between each word to make room for the crying breaths. "I don't wanna' fall anymore. It hurts."
She kept staring ahead and wouldn't look at me. Did I mention she's stubborn? After several moments she stood up. I thought she was quitting. It was getting close to dark and I thought she was going to mail it in. She picked up her bike and walked it over to me.
"Ok, daddy," she said through her tears, "Show me how to do it."
It only took a few tries before she was zipping around the street with both of her brothers. Amy came running out of the house to watch and Lucy rode that bike with her head held high and smiling from ear to ear.
I never boasted that I was right. It wasn't about being right for me. In fact, in that moment it was about the joy of seeing the daughter I love learn to trust me a little bit more. It was about sharing that moment with her. It was about loving my daughter enough to give her space to fall, while at the same time staying around close enough to catch her and be there when she was ready to run to me.
That pavement is hard and it hurts when you fall. Life is full of skinned knees, bumps on the head, broken bones and shattered lives. Sometimes it's easier just to throw down the bike and toil in defeat. Oftentimes it's tempting to sit there and accept defeat when the challenges look so insurmountable. Sometimes it's easier to just never ride again.
"I want to help you," God whispers. "I'm willing to help you. I know we can do this but you've got to let me show you how to do it," He pleads. "I'll be there beside you. Sure, you might fall. It might even hurt. I'm not promising you it will be easy, but I promise I'll be there with you."
I'm thinking about riding again. What about you?
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