"Tell me a story, mommy," the little one said, "a
story of you." We settled in together, her and I. A cozy couch and a
cool afternoon.
She is the image of me, the little me that once was five. Slight
of frame with a head of nut brown hair, I look at her and recognize the
features I once saw in the mirror. All wild and artsy and terribly clever. Determined.
Persistent.
I pull a book from the shelf of my cerebral library, dust off the
cover and page through to find a story worth telling. A story from 1982 when my
dad wore bell bottoms and my mom's black hair was feathered back. When
technology was the corded phone on our wall.
"I remember the day I learned to ride a bike," I began
and told of a pink Hufffy with a white banana seat. Hours of training wheels
led to this moment of two wheels and me and the steadying hand of a grown up on
the curved chrome handle behind the seat. I peddled and they ran behind.
Faster and faster, until the legs of the grown-up with the steadying hand
could not keep up. "I'm letting go," they panted and I felt a surge
of joy.
Down the street I flew, the voices of little friends cheering me
on. It was tough to keep my wheel straight what with my feet on the metal
pedals moving so fast they must have been a blur. The wind teased my short
brown hair. I felt invincible.
It has oft been quoted that "all good things must come to an
end." My thrill ended in the gravel at the edge of the street where my
right knee made contact. I felt it all through my body, the impact, the skin
missing and gravel embedded in the raw, moist surface. There were tears and
then the arms of my older sister. She lifted me and we made our way through the
crowd of small people who had circled me with sympathy and curiosity. In my
absence the crowd leaned to examine the small bits of rock for any terribly
interesting fleshy material I might have left behind.
Dr. Mother met us at the door of our apartment and started
treatment. A tweezer lifted the gravel and my wound was doused with a fizzing,
stinging flood of hydrogen peroxide before the band-aid was applied. Those
plastic strips were like magic and a badge of honor all together. My wound was
large so another sterile strip was applied. Two band-aids. This was
serious.
Slight of frame but sturdy in spirit, it didn't take long for my
tears to dry. The huffy had to be mastered. Out the door I went. I made sure to parade my
battle scars and then, with bravado, slid back on to that white, banana seat
and put my feet on the pedals.
The grown-up that had assisted in my inaugural run was no longer
available. It was just me, and that bike. My courage waned slightly and the
bend of my injured knee pulled the bandaids tightly against my raw wound. I
took a deep breath. The children cheered my efforts.
Success was not swift. It was a process, the mastering, like most
accomplishments are. Back on the bike, my feet on those pedals, all wobbly and
wild. A few feet of forward motion and then…pavement. The process repeated
itself frequently and it wasn’t long before the neighborhood kids tired of my
efforts and headed off to play.
And then, I did it. My wild wobbly bike straightened some as I
gained momentum. I gripped those handlebars with my scraped palms and cycled
past the gravelly spot where I had left my knee skin, past the children and
then back again.
It was a ride that ended when I slowed the bicycle and put my feet
flat on the ground. I did not feel the pain of my injuries. I did not notice
the missing bandaids. Victory was sweet and I savored it.
A little voice breaks in,”Were you okay, momma?” She is
compassionate, picturing a small wounded person and wanting to help. The
victory was lost on her just then.
It is a big story for a little person – the words between the
words. That victory is often won in the suffering and perseverance. Character
is shaped by experience.
She sees me, little me. Wounded and bleeding and triumphant. My
words painted a picture.
She sees me…me. The me that still wears the scar on my right knee
from that first bike ride. The me that teaches her of life of how to live it.
The me she watches plodding through the day to day and the busyness . The me
that makes mistakes, and feels afraid and prays for God to redeem my
failings.
We finish the story and she has questions – nothing is lost on
her. She inquires of the children, the wounds, and where was my helmet. She
needs each piece, an entire puzzle put together one fact at a time. Then, she
is satisfied.
I close the book and tuck it away. There will be another day.
Another story.
