I have on my desktop a picture of Grace learning to ride her bike. You can
see her biting her lip. The bike tips a bit to her left, but the blur of the tread
confirms that she is airborne and a thrilled gaze of determination shines in
her eyes. It is my image that draws my attention today. Hovering behind her
with my arms outspread like hen wings, I trail her by a step—ready at any
moment to catch her before she falls. Today, as I contemplate the joyful burden
of discipleship, it feels as if He has removed the training wheels. My heart
aches full at the echo of His feet behind me. And hope, just short of courage,
springs up when, hovering in my peripheral vision, I catch glimpses of His
outstretched hands.
Parenting has taught me more about my relationship with Him than any
other experience. Usually it feels corrective. I find myself asking if I would want my Father to respond to my tears, my whining, or my disobedience in the way I respond to my children.
Today, the memory of that experience approaches my parenting from a kinder,
more oblique angle. Instead of wishing I had His wisdom and His patience with
my children. I wish instead I had Grace’s conviction and joyful anticipation in
my own risky ventures without training wheels. And look how far she's come.
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| Grace, three years later |
