This Sunday before taking communion, I remembered I had criticized people behind their backs. And it was in front of my coworkers who know that I say I’m a Christian.
Sometimes I feel like I am riding a rickety old machine. Rusty gears screeching in the ears of my coworkers. Plastic pieces rattling off and hitting my friends. I’m pedaling around the neighborhood in a noisy mess that makes people say, “He must have terrible parents.”
But I think my father ignores that, and just keeps helping me with the handlebars and whispering, “Just keep pedaling, big guy. We’re gonna make it, alright?”
And this helps me keep pushing through, each day trying to live more righteously.
So at church as I walked up to the communion table this week, and obediently crunched up his body and put it into mine, I realized he is working his way into my machine. I think he oils the squeaky gears at times, but I have a hunch that when I’m not looking he’s replacing them with altogether new ones, from his own trike. Maybe gears of Teflon, aerospace grade. The type made for a different world.
And even when I mess up, and make him look bad, He picks me up and says, “We’ll have some falls, but we just gotta get up and keep on pedaling.” Even though it seems like He is only teaching me how to balance on this temporary little machine, maybe the whole time he is really training me to drive an altogether new one. A heavenly one in a heavenly place.
But for now I just gotta remember to keep listening to his patient instructions. To trust and obey. Day by day. And to just keep on pedaling.
Raw Spoon
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