Evidence of Spring

Be on the lookout for Cones of Mass Construction.

Balance

I was tormented by training wheels.

For over a year, my younger brother Rob had been riding a "two-wheeler" without relying on the crutches that I still needed to stay upright. I envied the silent rolling of rubber wheels on pavement when he rode, but inwardly cringed at the grating plastic rattle that accompanied my travels.

The extra wheels were one more visible evidence among many that I was still a "little" kid. Everyone I knew my own age went everywhere on bicycles, but my bike was the only one still needing trainers to keep me from crashing to the earth. There were other bikes in the neighborhood with training wheels, but they also sported tassels on the handlebars and baskets over the front wheels and belonged to my friends' little sisters. No one ever said anything, but I knew what they were thinking. I was thinking it too: Baby.

It wasn't long before I stopped riding my bike altogether, at least in public. For a while I tried to keep up on foot, but more often than not, I would be left behind. Soon I stopped trying to tag along and just made excuses as to why I had to stay home. I still loved to ride, however, so when no one was looking, I would pull out my wheel-encumbered bike and glide around the cement court in our back yard, pretending that the extra supports had been removed. The training wheels were positioned just a bit higher than the back wheel of my old Schwinn Sting-Ray, so that if you stayed exactly vertical, both of the little wheels would be off the ground and I would be spared the shameful sound of their otherwise incessant rattle. But only for a moment or two. Despite my longing for the freedom of the two-wheeled road, I was only able to hold the perfectly upright position for as long as it took to shift from one side to the other. The court was not big enough to go long stretches without a turn, so I could not muster much speed either. Teetering on three wheels, if you took a turn too fast, a face plant was nearly guaranteed.

Not that I didn’t try to learn. When my dad was in town, he would remove the training wheels and spend days trying to teach me to ride. I must have run him ragged as he would try to keep me upright on that precarious perch. But as soon as he would let go of the bike, I would tilt off to one side or the other and end up on the pavement. For the life of me, I could not find my balance, and each skinned knee or elbow seemed to convince me further that I would never master this impossible skill. Day after day, he would convince me to try again, expressing his confidence that this time it was going to “click.” I wanted it to click. I was tired of being left behind, tired of the humiliation. I wanted to ride. But each attempt ended in another crash, another scrape, another bruise, another evidence of my own ineptitude. The fear of falling made falling inevitable.

One day, after the last of several failed attempts, my younger brother rode up on his bike and circled me as I lay in the street. “See? It’s easy,” he said. I’m sure he was trying to be helpful, but I was utterly crushed and defeated. I had eaten the asphalt one too many times. I gave up in tears, vowing never to look at another bicycle, and went inside.

Mother met me at the door and took me to her room and, being a woman of great faith, she suggested I ask my Heavenly Father to help me ride a bike. I didn’t hold out much hope for this strategy. After all, I had previously prayed for a magic belt which would make me fly and that wish was never granted. At the time I didn’t see much difference between these two impossible modes of transportation. If God couldn’t or wouldn’t make me fly, why would His response to riding be any different? Nevertheless, I agreed to Mom’s suggestion and began to ask for divine intervention. Although my prayers may have been faithless, I suspect the prayers of my parents were offered up in earnest. It must have pained them to see my despair.

I gave up on the prayer strategy after only a couple of days. However, my parents must have continued to pray on my behalf. A few weeks later, the prayers were answered.

In a dream of the night, I saw myself climbing on the back of a little red two-wheeler that had been gathering dust in our garage, pushing off and pedaling, faster and faster, around and around the outside edge of the old cement court. It was thrilling, and so real I could feel the wind in my face and the shifting of weight to the inside of each speeding curve. I knew the joy of balance.

The next morning I arose early and, still dressed in pajamas, I went to the garage, found the little red bike, rolled it out to the court, and before I was awake enough to remember that what I had experienced was only a dream, I climbed on and never looked back. About ten minutes later I realized what was actually happening and began shouting for everyone to “Come see! Come see!” I was hurtling around the court at breakneck speeds, tilting low into corners and pedaling with joyous abandon. It was a moment of triumph and my whole family rejoiced.

That night, before tucking the world's happiest and most exhausted boy into bed, my mother reminded me of our prayers for help, and led me to understand that the God of Heaven had heard our prayers and blessed me with a dream. She also suggested that it would be a good idea to thank Heavenly Father for this blessing. That night God became real to me. The guiding influence of parents helped me to understand that prayers are heard and answered by a loving, caring Father who is just waiting to help us succeed if we will but ask in faith. They taught me that God is a God of miracles, and that all things are possible when you enlist His aid in a good cause. That night they also taught me the importance of expressing gratitude for the blessings received of this loving Father.

From that day until I graduated to a car, if I was going anywhere, I was on a bike and moving fast. It was not long before I had rejoined the roving band of bicycle boys and was soon known as one of the most fearless of riders. It would be a few more years before I would master the coveted "Wheelie," but the fear of falling had been banished forever...along with the training wheels.

Go with God.