All Scripture is inspired by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, for training in righteousness; so that the man of God may be adequate, equipped for every good work. – 2 Timothy 3:16-17
When my son was 6, he decided he was finally ready to learn to ride his bike without training wheels. Yes… 6. I don’t know what took him so long. I don’t know why we didn’t push him harder, but I do know that he was 6.
Do you know what happened? I know you’re picturing in your mind that we took those wheels off, ran alongside him, let go at that magical moment, and watching him ride laughing down the sidewalk. Ahem… um, no.
What actually happened is that he started at the top of our slanted driveway, by himself when no one was looking, lost control and rolled downhill, across the street and into a parked car. Yep. It’s like that.
Life is like that sometimes, right? We have an image in our minds of how this great moment of independence is going to go. We’ve preplanned our acceptance speech, ordered the cake, invited all our friends to the party. And the next thing we know we’re careening into a large metal object headlong down a hill. We totally forget there even are brakes, much less how to use them. Then we open our eyes and we’re lying bleeding and crying on the pavement.
I ran out. I saw it happen and I ran out, knowing I would be too late to save him from hurt, cursing every minute that kept me from cradling him in my arms. I patched him up, using the “magic medicine” that stopped the hurts most quickly. I kissed the boo-boos (he was still young enough to take comfort in mama’s kisses), murmuring to him softly as I wiped the tears from his dirty face.
Oh, he got better. But he really didn’t want to get back on that bike. “Put the training wheels back on,” he begged for days.
I’ve felt like that before. I’ve been that bleeding, scared little boy. Have you?
When chronic disease blazes into your life like a destructive inferno, when disability robs you at knife-point of all the things you hold most dear, when pain makes another jab with a malicious smile and a giggle of glee that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up… that’s the moment the training wheels come off.
And they can’t ever go back on. Because it’s time to be a big-boy. It’s time to fly free and learn some new skills.
May I encourage you, as He scoops you up and begins the mending? His Word is all the training wheel we need. That leadership role you were made for, that skill you had honed and wielded like a pro, that calling you were so certain was direct from God… those were smoke and mirrors. Not to be trusted, and definitely not to be leaned on.
Are you willing to get back on that bike? Don’t forget your armor, cause we’re sure to have more falls before we soar, but climb back on. Let’s ride.
Dear God, thank you for racing out to gather us up. Thank you for the training wheels that will never be removed. Help us to trust not in what we see, but in what we know to be true. In Jesus’ Name, Amen…
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