on a Saturday afternoon
It is right after the rain visited our street on Daisyfield Dr in Northern California. The asphalt is perfumed with the sweet earthy smells of a cloudy afternoon, while the other neighborhood kids are still inside with their Tamagotchi's and lego houses.
My pops gives me the look, and I, fiddling with the gold pendant of a lamb around my neck, smile nervously.
Today is the day he promised to teach me how to ride a bike.
I wouldn't say I was a superstitious or an overly anxious child, but I was one to pay attention to those science catalogs in the waiting room at the dentist. Those brightly colored magazines that told tales of people who were struck by lightning while holding an umbrella or walking their dog. Or I would assume, from wearing little gold necklaces of lambs around their necks.
It could happen to anybody.
After about half an hour of reassuring me that I am in fact, not an ideal conductor for electricity, he convinces me enough to get onto the bike. (Which, void of the training wheels, feels entirely alien and much bigger than what I remembered.)
Furrowing my 7 year old eyebrows, I command my dad, "Daddy. Now, don't let go of my seat. Okay? Promise?"
Because, as a young girl, I know exactly how I want to learn how to ride a bike--and in my mind, it is supposed to be convenient for me, comfortable, and sans risk.
A coy smirk sits on his lips as he shrugs his shoulders like he always does. He starts to walk beside me holding me upright in this familiarly unfamiliar bicycle. It is pleasant here, gliding across the street on two wheels held secure by my dad's able arms.
His stride becomes a light jog. Picking up speed, my excitement builds with each turning of the pedal.
Within moments, I hear him say, "Alright...ready, Heidi?"
Ready for what? No. NO.
NONONONO, YOU PROMISED.
Jogging breaks into running, and faster and faster, I hear his breath getting more strained.
"Just keep pedaling" I hear his voice trail off, as his fingers roll off the edge of my bike seat.
Fear quickly erupts to anger.
I begin to yell down the street with strong indignation, "DADDY, I TOLD YOU NOT TO LET GOOO"
Anger slowly turns to excitement.
Excitement blossoms into confidence.
I squeeze the brake handle softly just as he taught me to, and the sound of his footsteps trickle their way back into reality as the world comes to a slow once again.
He grasps onto my bike frame before I can fall over.
On a Saturday afternoon, my papa taught me how to ride a bike.
On a Saturday afternoon, some 15 years later, I remember that same fear I had the moment he let go.
And this time, I recall His promises and His faithfulness in the midst of my fears.
Even when I can't see You,
You will never leave, nor forsake me.
My pops gives me the look, and I, fiddling with the gold pendant of a lamb around my neck, smile nervously.
Today is the day he promised to teach me how to ride a bike.
I wouldn't say I was a superstitious or an overly anxious child, but I was one to pay attention to those science catalogs in the waiting room at the dentist. Those brightly colored magazines that told tales of people who were struck by lightning while holding an umbrella or walking their dog. Or I would assume, from wearing little gold necklaces of lambs around their necks.
It could happen to anybody.
After about half an hour of reassuring me that I am in fact, not an ideal conductor for electricity, he convinces me enough to get onto the bike. (Which, void of the training wheels, feels entirely alien and much bigger than what I remembered.)
Furrowing my 7 year old eyebrows, I command my dad, "Daddy. Now, don't let go of my seat. Okay? Promise?"
Because, as a young girl, I know exactly how I want to learn how to ride a bike--and in my mind, it is supposed to be convenient for me, comfortable, and sans risk.
A coy smirk sits on his lips as he shrugs his shoulders like he always does. He starts to walk beside me holding me upright in this familiarly unfamiliar bicycle. It is pleasant here, gliding across the street on two wheels held secure by my dad's able arms.
His stride becomes a light jog. Picking up speed, my excitement builds with each turning of the pedal.
Within moments, I hear him say, "Alright...ready, Heidi?"
Ready for what? No. NO.
NONONONO, YOU PROMISED.
Jogging breaks into running, and faster and faster, I hear his breath getting more strained.
"Just keep pedaling" I hear his voice trail off, as his fingers roll off the edge of my bike seat.
Fear quickly erupts to anger.
I begin to yell down the street with strong indignation, "DADDY, I TOLD YOU NOT TO LET GOOO"
Anger slowly turns to excitement.
Excitement blossoms into confidence.
I squeeze the brake handle softly just as he taught me to, and the sound of his footsteps trickle their way back into reality as the world comes to a slow once again.
He grasps onto my bike frame before I can fall over.
On a Saturday afternoon, my papa taught me how to ride a bike.
On a Saturday afternoon, some 15 years later, I remember that same fear I had the moment he let go.
And this time, I recall His promises and His faithfulness in the midst of my fears.
Even when I can't see You,
You will never leave, nor forsake me.
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