This weekend, my fiancé and I decided to blow the dust off our trusty mountain bikes and take advantage of one of the last warmish fall days before winter grips her icy fingers around all desirable outdoor adventures. We asked my youngest son, Waylan, if he would like to join us on the trail. While my sons have both skimmed the surface of mountain biking, they are nowhere as adept with the sport as Justin and myself (okay, maybe just Justin).
I was nervous about taking my newly nine-year-old on a complete trail loop, the likes of which he has never experienced. Not to mention the slick leaves carpeting the rocky trail that typically provided much-needed traction for a newbie. For me.
Convinced we might be mistaken for a deer by area hunters (or worse, a 15-point buck in prime rutting season), I forced my poor son to wear a bright-colored vest, while I donned a neon long-sleeved t-shirt that earned me the nickname “Traffic Cop” for the afternoon.
We started down the thickly plush and leaf-covered rocky path. All was going well. My son was doing an amazing job. Justin was in the lead, Waylan next, and I stayed far behind as I have learned the hard way what happens when you tailgate on a bike. Not good.
Holding my breath and hoping against hope that we would escape this adventurous escapade without a trip to the Emergency Room, I kept a constant eagle-eye on my son mere feet in front of me as he meandered his way in and out of the trees, over the roots and rocks, and swiftly through the leaves lying at the base of his thick rubber bike tires.
The moment I exhaled and dared to believe all was well was the exact moment my sweet child somehow lost his traction and, right in front of my horrified over-protective momma eyes, sailed not-so-gracefully over the handlebars, landing roughly on the cold hard ground smack-dab in the middle of the trail.
I checked to be sure no bones were broken, but the worst injury he had suffered was to his pride. His embarrassment quickly turned to anger in a fitful display of throwing his helmet and kicking a nearby fallen tree trunk.
Had I not been empathetically inclined by my own numerous bike stunts (all unintended) over the years, I might have had to stifle a laugh. But I knew that would further injure his pride, so I gave my best attempt at encouraging him to recalibrate and try again.
As I reflected on this experience later that same evening, I nearly laughed out loud, reminiscing about the hundreds of times I have metaphorically fallen off life’s mountain bike and reacted several shades more dramatically than my young and resilient offspring.
Looking back on my life, I can easily pinpoint seasons of ridiculously hard-fought discouragement. I struggled through young adult sports injuries, early years of not-so-marital- bliss (which led to later years of divorce recovery), heart-breaking and gut-wrenching fertility issues, crippling job dissatisfaction, financial instability, and parenting paralysis. In all these seasons, I un-gracefully lobbed over the handrails of my safe and comfortable existence, landing painfully and embarrassingly on my tender backside straight on a metaphorical trail of jutting rocks.
Yet.
During each of those tough seasons, I was gently and patiently prodded up from the depths of despair by a loving Savior and friend. Sure, He knew I needed some self-reflection to lick my wounds and garner the smallest fraction of self-respect. He allowed me that time of quiet, peaceful comfort with which to start the healing process and use what I coined a “catastrophic wreckage of life” as a season of growth that would later help others going through similar experiences.
Jesus allowed me to stomp my feet, throw my helmet, cry out in the anger of my wounded heart, which He knew was simply intense pain lying just below the surface. Then, He offered His hand. He lifted me up out of the crispy leaves covering the muck and mire below. He wiped the tears from my face and dusted the remnants of dirt from my tattered clothing and scuffed-up skin.
He then proceeded to give me a shot of encouragement, allowing me to gain momentum from the wreckage of life, toward the waiting journey ahead, full of magical sights, comforting sounds, and infinitely beautiful experiences waiting just around the next curve in the trail.
As I witnessed this inevitable mountain bike wreckage (which could have been so much worse), I was reminded of the many trips, wrecks, injuries, hurts, pain, and dead ends we experience in this world. I was also reminded that God sent His very Son, to not only forgive His human children from the daily sin which so easily entangles us, but to live a human life so that He would fully understand the spiritual and physical battles we experience in this world.
There is no one that understands the rocky terrain of this world like Jesus. Allow Him to be your life raft when the stormy waters are rough, your co-pilot when the turbulence is out of control, your mountain biking partner when the trail is covered in slick leaves and hides the jutted rocks and dangerous root systems just below the surface. He wants to walk with you, talk with you, listen to you, heal you, and love you through those rocky times.
All He asks is that you allow Him to lead.
