(In an effort to save myself from embarrassment, I wasn’t going to share this story. When I realized that I was embarrassed even without everyone knowing, I thought it was useless to keep it to myself. Besides, I think it might make one or two of you laugh…and isn’t laughter one of the best forms of therapy. Lori, I think you will love this one.)
“Take out a sheet of paper and number 1-10.” Oh, those are the probably the most dreaded words I can remember from high school. No matter how well I thought I knew the material we were covering, I always felt this overwhelming feeling of incompetence the minute the teacher would say those words.
My, how some things never change.
Last semester, I enrolled in an Anatomy and Physiology I class at a local community college. After 36 years of not knowing what I wanted to be when I grow up, I set out to complete pre-requisites in order to be eligible for Nursing School in the Fall of 2010. I’m not sure I had ever studied as hard in my life. We started with memorizing the bones of the body, then, proceeded with the muscles along with their origin and insertions. Anxiety never stopped building the whole semester.
By December I was trying to catch my breath after having filled every corner of my brain in just a few months. Studying for a final exam had never before been so stressful, especially since I had set a personal goal of making an A in the class. I have no idea what I was thinking. Hmmm, I am a single mother of two, very active children, work full-time, and I expected an A?
A week before the final exam, the professor announced that we would have a quiz for extra points to be added to our final exam grade. There would be a possibility of 10 points. Nothing would be counted against the final if answers were wrong. Sounds easy enough, right? Well, it would have sounded easier had the extra points not been 10 comprehensive questions that could cover bones, muscles, nerves, special senses, tissue or anything we had discussed all semester long.
The dreaded day of the quiz arrived. The professor walked into the room and said, “Take out a sheet of paper and number 1 through 10. I will call out the questions twice. Once we have completed the quiz, we will grade them. (Holding up the leg of a skeleton and pointing) What is the name of this bone.” I was absolutely relieved, because I knew the first answer.
(My professor kept a log of class participation in discussion and encouraged us to chime in during his lecture and gave an incentive of extra points for doing so. Because I had studied myself crazy for class, I made it a point to contribute in order to earn the participation points for the class.)
When the professor asked the final question, I was finally able to take a deep breath and somewhat relax. I had known the majority of the answers and would have several extra points to add to my final exam grade. Whew! I put my pencil down and was ready to grade the quiz. (Holding up the leg of the same skeleton and pointing) the professor asked us to identify the bone. Because I had so consistently participated in class to this point, I confidently answered, “TIBIA!” I was SO excited that I knew the answer!
When everyone’s head turned and looked at me, some giggling aloud, I realized that the professor was asking the quiz questions a second time for anyone who might need to hear them again. I had just blurted out, in Tourrette Syndrome fashion, the answer for everyone and the quiz wasn’t over. Immediately, I felt a rush of heat as my face turned some horrible color of red I was sure no one had ever seen before. I’m sure I had not been that embarrassed since the first grade in 1979 (another day, another story). I immediately thought I would probably have to spend the night in the classroom, because I didn’t want to walk out and hear what the other students, 18-20 years old, had to say about some crazy, 30-something year old woman, who couldn’t control herself. I was mortified. I still had another day of class with these students for the final and the thought of coming back into the classroom with them made me nauseous.
Somehow, I did it, though, and still managed to make an A in the class!
Classes began again last week. This semester, I’m taking A&P II. I expect to make an A in this class, as crazy as that sounds. Some of my classmates from last semester are in the class, and they seem to have either forgotten about my outburst or are laughing inside every time they see me.
My professor announced on the first day of class that we would have a quiz every week. The same anxiety from last semester crept into my head and I couldn’t breathe again. Monday, I walked into class prepared for those dreaded words, “Take out a piece of paper and number 1-10.” However, he never gave the quiz. I’m going back this afternoon, and I while I will be anxious and sitting on the edge of my seat, I WILL NOT participate when it comes time to answer the questions on the quiz.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Fences
Oh, the prospect of snow does conjure up so many wonderful memories!
Just below our house was my grandfather's farm, where my uncle could always be found. He milked cows in the Spring and popped wheelies on his motorcycle; milked cows in the Summer and ate half gallons of ice cream in one sitting; milked cows in the Fall and scared me to death on Halloween; milked cows in the Winter and LOVED the snow as much as any kid I ever knew. Basically, he milked cows and lived life to its fullest and fastest!
I can still see the fear in my brother's eyes as he talked about taking a trip to Franklin with Roger in the snow. Roger drove fast and fearless without the snow. In the snow, he still drove as if there weren't anything on the road. My brother talked about spinning and sliding in the truck as if he were on skis that he couldn't control. However scared he had been and relieved to make it home, he was ready to hop back in the truck, because it was more fun than anyone could ever imagine.
We've heard stories of Roger sledding on the roads at midnight, and I can close my eyes to this day and see him laughing so hard as he headed down a hill at breakneck speeds - his favorite way to ride.
When I was 8 years old, Roger came to our house to sled with me. My parents had bought the last green, metal disc slide at the hardware store and we had gotten a lot of snow. We would start out at the top of the hill next to my neighbors' house and sled to the bottom of the hill in our yard which was separated from my poppa's farm by a wire fence. We were sledding for a while, my uncle taking his turn with my brother and me, so the snow was packed down like a solid sheet of ice.
It was my turn. I got on my metal disc, held onto the white plastic handles and began what would be my last ride for the day. My uncle, Roger, was standing about halfway between to help me, "just in case." I'm pretty sure I knew my destiny when I passed him going 150 mph, because he told my mother, "Her eyes were this big around (making hand gestures as big as tires)." I was headed for the creek, trees, I think even a cow, and then, I came to an abrupt stop.
Remember that fence I mentioned earlier? You know, the wire one that separated our yard from the farm land. Let me try to paint you a mental picture...wire fences, the BARBED wire fences that are used for farming, typically have large squares...I was on the disc, I stuck my arms and legs out in front of me to stop, and I did stop...but each arm went through a square and each leg went through a square. My face and torso were stopped by the wire on the fence. I even have a scar in my eyebrow to show for it. I ran, bleeding, into the house and crying. My uncle followed trying to help me, and after seeing that I was okay, threw his head back and laughed that familiar laugh...the one that makes me wish I could go outside and sled down the hill, run into the fence, and hear all over again.
Oh, the prospect of snow...so, I went to buy a sled today. When I walked into the hardware store, I saw the familiar metal disc with the white plastic handles. As tempted as I was to buy one, I was drawn to a bigger sled...one that I can pile both girls in with me and race down the streets at breakneck speed. I'm not sure how we'll stop, because there aren't any fences...but I'm hoping in my mind there will be a familiar ringing of laughter from the daredevil I loved so much.
Just below our house was my grandfather's farm, where my uncle could always be found. He milked cows in the Spring and popped wheelies on his motorcycle; milked cows in the Summer and ate half gallons of ice cream in one sitting; milked cows in the Fall and scared me to death on Halloween; milked cows in the Winter and LOVED the snow as much as any kid I ever knew. Basically, he milked cows and lived life to its fullest and fastest!
I can still see the fear in my brother's eyes as he talked about taking a trip to Franklin with Roger in the snow. Roger drove fast and fearless without the snow. In the snow, he still drove as if there weren't anything on the road. My brother talked about spinning and sliding in the truck as if he were on skis that he couldn't control. However scared he had been and relieved to make it home, he was ready to hop back in the truck, because it was more fun than anyone could ever imagine.
We've heard stories of Roger sledding on the roads at midnight, and I can close my eyes to this day and see him laughing so hard as he headed down a hill at breakneck speeds - his favorite way to ride.
When I was 8 years old, Roger came to our house to sled with me. My parents had bought the last green, metal disc slide at the hardware store and we had gotten a lot of snow. We would start out at the top of the hill next to my neighbors' house and sled to the bottom of the hill in our yard which was separated from my poppa's farm by a wire fence. We were sledding for a while, my uncle taking his turn with my brother and me, so the snow was packed down like a solid sheet of ice.
It was my turn. I got on my metal disc, held onto the white plastic handles and began what would be my last ride for the day. My uncle, Roger, was standing about halfway between to help me, "just in case." I'm pretty sure I knew my destiny when I passed him going 150 mph, because he told my mother, "Her eyes were this big around (making hand gestures as big as tires)." I was headed for the creek, trees, I think even a cow, and then, I came to an abrupt stop.
Remember that fence I mentioned earlier? You know, the wire one that separated our yard from the farm land. Let me try to paint you a mental picture...wire fences, the BARBED wire fences that are used for farming, typically have large squares...I was on the disc, I stuck my arms and legs out in front of me to stop, and I did stop...but each arm went through a square and each leg went through a square. My face and torso were stopped by the wire on the fence. I even have a scar in my eyebrow to show for it. I ran, bleeding, into the house and crying. My uncle followed trying to help me, and after seeing that I was okay, threw his head back and laughed that familiar laugh...the one that makes me wish I could go outside and sled down the hill, run into the fence, and hear all over again.
Oh, the prospect of snow...so, I went to buy a sled today. When I walked into the hardware store, I saw the familiar metal disc with the white plastic handles. As tempted as I was to buy one, I was drawn to a bigger sled...one that I can pile both girls in with me and race down the streets at breakneck speed. I'm not sure how we'll stop, because there aren't any fences...but I'm hoping in my mind there will be a familiar ringing of laughter from the daredevil I loved so much.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Starstruck
I have friends who run into "stars" in Whole Foods and Target. I have a co-worker who knows where her favorite star lives and sends him gifts for his birthday and at Christmas. However, I could be sitting next to someone famous and not even realize who they might be. I'm usually in a rush trying to finish shopping, eating, etc., and just don't take the time to see who is around me. (Rushing is a curse my mother taught me.)
Last Friday night I was coaching my 8 year old's basketball team and I was oblivious to the fact that I was in the presence of a star.
Coaching seven girls who are ages 7-8 is a challenge. The gym is always loud, they are running and it is difficult for them to hear any guidance I might need to share with them. Being a natually loud person, my yelling is even louder than normal. At one point I had screamed, "Get into the zone defense," about 15 times and was getting ready to say it again, when suddenly, I was interrupted.
A very tall, angry man had approached me and began yelling in my face. His team was getting beat 18-6 (by our team) and obviously, it didn't make him happy. In the midst of his yelling, I realized that he really only wanted me and everyone else around to know that he "was a PROFESSIONAL sports player." Everything else was a blur, except when he lunged towards me as if to strike me.
For once in my life I would have been "starstruck," had the league coordinator not escorted the gentleman away from our bench.
I must say that even though he yelled in my face for quite some time, I still wouldn't recognize him from Adam if I saw him again. However, that is not the case for everyone. The PROFESSIONAL was spotted at a hospital in Murfreesboro today selling surgical equipment. A client of his was asked who he was, and she was quick to say he was a former Tennessee Titan. When researched, he also played for the Saints and finished his career several years back with the Bears. How disappointing it must be to go from being spotted as a "PROFESSIONAL sports player" to now, "the 6' 6" guy who verbally attacked a 5' 5" female coach of a 7-8 year old girls' basketball team." Now, I'm thinking I should have asked for his autograph!
Last Friday night I was coaching my 8 year old's basketball team and I was oblivious to the fact that I was in the presence of a star.
Coaching seven girls who are ages 7-8 is a challenge. The gym is always loud, they are running and it is difficult for them to hear any guidance I might need to share with them. Being a natually loud person, my yelling is even louder than normal. At one point I had screamed, "Get into the zone defense," about 15 times and was getting ready to say it again, when suddenly, I was interrupted.
A very tall, angry man had approached me and began yelling in my face. His team was getting beat 18-6 (by our team) and obviously, it didn't make him happy. In the midst of his yelling, I realized that he really only wanted me and everyone else around to know that he "was a PROFESSIONAL sports player." Everything else was a blur, except when he lunged towards me as if to strike me.
For once in my life I would have been "starstruck," had the league coordinator not escorted the gentleman away from our bench.
I must say that even though he yelled in my face for quite some time, I still wouldn't recognize him from Adam if I saw him again. However, that is not the case for everyone. The PROFESSIONAL was spotted at a hospital in Murfreesboro today selling surgical equipment. A client of his was asked who he was, and she was quick to say he was a former Tennessee Titan. When researched, he also played for the Saints and finished his career several years back with the Bears. How disappointing it must be to go from being spotted as a "PROFESSIONAL sports player" to now, "the 6' 6" guy who verbally attacked a 5' 5" female coach of a 7-8 year old girls' basketball team." Now, I'm thinking I should have asked for his autograph!
Friday, September 25, 2009
Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition
In 1942 Frank Loesser wrote an American Patriotic song, entitled, “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.” The words described a chaplain serving on a ship during World War II, who put down his Bible and manned a gun to serve with the soldiers he was accompanying.
I would like to say that I knew that noble story all along, but I actually heard the title of my blog entry when The Dixie Chicks recorded, “Sin Wagon.” “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition” was a line in that song. There isn’t a thing patriotic about “Sin Wagon,” except a lady puts on a red dress.
This morning I thought I had better research the line a little more before publicly humiliating myself…well, not too publicly, because I don’t have many readers...hehe!
Most people know that I have played piano since I was 6 years old. I can remember begging my mother to let me take lessons, which I did for 10 years before I begged her not to make me take lessons any longer. (My mother should have put her foot down and made me continue.) Anyway, I began playing the piano at church in the 4th grade and quickly became the substitute accompanist at my little, country, home church. Since then, I have been employed part-time by several different congregations and have had a variety of experiences in each tenure.
The piano is commonly placed in the front of the church and on a stage-like platform. There are several instances during the service when the pianist is the soloist. Many of these solo times are planned as part of the service for the purpose of meditation and personal reflection. Even for me as I play, it is an expression of worship and praise to the One who gave me the gift of music.
As a young, single accompanist, I am an easy target for those whose personal reflection may be easily distracted. Unfortunately, the pianist is one of the last people to leave the sanctuary at the end of service. Packing up my books and getting out is sometimes a chore, especially when there is a barricade between the bench and the door. By barricade, I mean a male who I’ve never seen before wants to take me and the girls to lunch. Of course, there are those times when I have received an e-mail from the pastor the next week telling me that a man has written him or called him and asked my marital status, my parenting arrangement or what I’m doing for the rest of my life. Oh, and one of my favorites…[strange guy walks up to me and says] ”I heard you are divorced. I want you to know that I know life must not be easy as a single mom, and you can call me and talk to me about it anytime.” At this point I’m running, because I think someone has set off a bomb.
There have also been scary times. Following is an excerpt from a letter I received, which caused me more concern than any wimpy attempt at asking me out:
“…I love how your hair frames your face like a beautiful picture. I love how you smell better than fresh cut flowers. I love watching you walk when you have on a longer skirt and how it shimmies back and forth across your pretty legs…” Yes, serial killers attend church, too.
I took it to the police. Evidently, one must have a physical, near death encounter in order to take out a restraining order. My father and I went to the pastor of the church. The pastor’s suggestion was I could have a 9mm in the piano bench. Something about sitting on a concealed weapon makes praising the Lord difficult for me…not that holding it in my hand and trying to play the bass line makes it any less difficult. I’d rather tap my toe to the beat than count to the sound of gunshots.
While the song of the noble chaplain putting down his Bible to fight presents an endearing message, I chose to take my family and get out of that war zone. There are other battles to choose.
As for those who stand across my enemy line, I’ll leave you there to sing, “I’ll Fly Away...on a Sin Wagon.”
I would like to say that I knew that noble story all along, but I actually heard the title of my blog entry when The Dixie Chicks recorded, “Sin Wagon.” “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition” was a line in that song. There isn’t a thing patriotic about “Sin Wagon,” except a lady puts on a red dress.
This morning I thought I had better research the line a little more before publicly humiliating myself…well, not too publicly, because I don’t have many readers...hehe!
Most people know that I have played piano since I was 6 years old. I can remember begging my mother to let me take lessons, which I did for 10 years before I begged her not to make me take lessons any longer. (My mother should have put her foot down and made me continue.) Anyway, I began playing the piano at church in the 4th grade and quickly became the substitute accompanist at my little, country, home church. Since then, I have been employed part-time by several different congregations and have had a variety of experiences in each tenure.
The piano is commonly placed in the front of the church and on a stage-like platform. There are several instances during the service when the pianist is the soloist. Many of these solo times are planned as part of the service for the purpose of meditation and personal reflection. Even for me as I play, it is an expression of worship and praise to the One who gave me the gift of music.
As a young, single accompanist, I am an easy target for those whose personal reflection may be easily distracted. Unfortunately, the pianist is one of the last people to leave the sanctuary at the end of service. Packing up my books and getting out is sometimes a chore, especially when there is a barricade between the bench and the door. By barricade, I mean a male who I’ve never seen before wants to take me and the girls to lunch. Of course, there are those times when I have received an e-mail from the pastor the next week telling me that a man has written him or called him and asked my marital status, my parenting arrangement or what I’m doing for the rest of my life. Oh, and one of my favorites…[strange guy walks up to me and says] ”I heard you are divorced. I want you to know that I know life must not be easy as a single mom, and you can call me and talk to me about it anytime.” At this point I’m running, because I think someone has set off a bomb.
There have also been scary times. Following is an excerpt from a letter I received, which caused me more concern than any wimpy attempt at asking me out:
“…I love how your hair frames your face like a beautiful picture. I love how you smell better than fresh cut flowers. I love watching you walk when you have on a longer skirt and how it shimmies back and forth across your pretty legs…” Yes, serial killers attend church, too.
I took it to the police. Evidently, one must have a physical, near death encounter in order to take out a restraining order. My father and I went to the pastor of the church. The pastor’s suggestion was I could have a 9mm in the piano bench. Something about sitting on a concealed weapon makes praising the Lord difficult for me…not that holding it in my hand and trying to play the bass line makes it any less difficult. I’d rather tap my toe to the beat than count to the sound of gunshots.
While the song of the noble chaplain putting down his Bible to fight presents an endearing message, I chose to take my family and get out of that war zone. There are other battles to choose.
As for those who stand across my enemy line, I’ll leave you there to sing, “I’ll Fly Away...on a Sin Wagon.”
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Lobster Claws
Trust is not something I do very well. In fact, there are times when I don't even trust myself. For example, I sometimes have to make many trips back into my house before I leave to make sure I've unplugged my flat iron...or maybe that's OCD - hmmm, something to discuss later.
I am not a fan of lobsters. I don't like to eat them, I don't even like to walk by them swimming in their tank at the grocery store. I think it's their claws that scare me most. I'm not even sure I could pick one up and put it in a pot of boiling water...even with its claws tied.
I'm not sure what possessed me to think that 30 or even 60 feet in the air would be something fun to do, especially since it involved both aforementioned nemeses of my existence, but with a different type of lobster claw.
Steve was our fearless leader, I think...when he told us his name, I was watching as the group before us struggled to cross the cable-suspended planks. Then, Steve said something that caused me to panic, "You will have to trust each other as a team to get across. Don't try to do this alone." One of my teammates sarcastically commented, "Well, this should be easy for Leigh, since she has such a great ability to trust."
Then, he began to explain how the "lobster claws" attached to the rope around my waist would suspend me from the cables above and keep me from falling. My thoughts were, "Oh sweet mercy. Not only do I need to trust my teammates, I have to trust these lobster claws, too?" (Note: In case someone reads this and questions my spelling of "too," this is the correct spelling when the word is used to mean, "also." Some people would argue with a rock. Yes, this was an actual argument that recently took place with one person against SEVERAL, sharp writers.)
We proceeded. Bill was a leader from the beginning. He stepped out onto the first plank, held out his hand and then, I began the adventure. Libby followed and Steve was the last. I immediately began wishing God had given me longer legs to make the steps from plank to plank a little less frightening. My palms were sweaty, making it difficult to hold on to Bill and Libby and I had no trust whatsoever in the lobster claws attached above my head.
I think it took an hour to do the whole ropes course, and it must have taken 45 minutes to walk the planks.
The next step was a different type of challenge...walking a tightrope while leaning completely on a banister-height rope. The ropes crossed halfway, which meant stepping over ropes to get where we needed to be. We reached the "crossrope." It was at this point my anxiety began to taper. A teammate slipped off the tightrope, and there, 30 feet in the air, the lobster claws did just as they were supposed to do...kept him from falling.
We finished the rest of the course in a reasonable amount of time, obviously 15 minutes later (haha). Every new stage of the course seemed to become more of a journey, although a little easier. In our progression, we became more of a team - even I began reaching out my hand to help the others.
I was completely exhausted by the time we reached the platform from which we would "zip" to the ground. Yes, I was relieved.
I was relieved to be finished, but I was also relieved that in my doubts and fears, I still have, deep within my soul, the ability to trust. Will I walk closer to the lobster tank at the grocery store? Absolutely not.
I am not a fan of lobsters. I don't like to eat them, I don't even like to walk by them swimming in their tank at the grocery store. I think it's their claws that scare me most. I'm not even sure I could pick one up and put it in a pot of boiling water...even with its claws tied.
I'm not sure what possessed me to think that 30 or even 60 feet in the air would be something fun to do, especially since it involved both aforementioned nemeses of my existence, but with a different type of lobster claw.
Steve was our fearless leader, I think...when he told us his name, I was watching as the group before us struggled to cross the cable-suspended planks. Then, Steve said something that caused me to panic, "You will have to trust each other as a team to get across. Don't try to do this alone." One of my teammates sarcastically commented, "Well, this should be easy for Leigh, since she has such a great ability to trust."
Then, he began to explain how the "lobster claws" attached to the rope around my waist would suspend me from the cables above and keep me from falling. My thoughts were, "Oh sweet mercy. Not only do I need to trust my teammates, I have to trust these lobster claws, too?" (Note: In case someone reads this and questions my spelling of "too," this is the correct spelling when the word is used to mean, "also." Some people would argue with a rock. Yes, this was an actual argument that recently took place with one person against SEVERAL, sharp writers.)
We proceeded. Bill was a leader from the beginning. He stepped out onto the first plank, held out his hand and then, I began the adventure. Libby followed and Steve was the last. I immediately began wishing God had given me longer legs to make the steps from plank to plank a little less frightening. My palms were sweaty, making it difficult to hold on to Bill and Libby and I had no trust whatsoever in the lobster claws attached above my head.
I think it took an hour to do the whole ropes course, and it must have taken 45 minutes to walk the planks.
The next step was a different type of challenge...walking a tightrope while leaning completely on a banister-height rope. The ropes crossed halfway, which meant stepping over ropes to get where we needed to be. We reached the "crossrope." It was at this point my anxiety began to taper. A teammate slipped off the tightrope, and there, 30 feet in the air, the lobster claws did just as they were supposed to do...kept him from falling.
We finished the rest of the course in a reasonable amount of time, obviously 15 minutes later (haha). Every new stage of the course seemed to become more of a journey, although a little easier. In our progression, we became more of a team - even I began reaching out my hand to help the others.
I was completely exhausted by the time we reached the platform from which we would "zip" to the ground. Yes, I was relieved.
I was relieved to be finished, but I was also relieved that in my doubts and fears, I still have, deep within my soul, the ability to trust. Will I walk closer to the lobster tank at the grocery store? Absolutely not.
Friday, September 18, 2009
The Bike Ride
Okay, after considering this for a looooooong time, and being inspired by my friend, Lori, I created this blog. My thoughts are random, my life is a whirlwind and crazy things happen to me everyday. Why wouldn't I want to share?
The title of my blog, "He said, 'Pedal,' " may seem odd and vague, which many of my friends say is indicative of my social behavior. So, on this rare occasion, I will give you a glimpse of the corner of one of the cards I hold so closely to my chest...more appropriately, one of the spokes of my brain wheels, whose tires need balancing and aligning from time to time.
Walk into my family room and see my life-illustrative bicycles hanging on the wall. Yes, I travel "rocky places at breakneck speeds." My comfort comes "just when I'm sure I can't do it anymore, He just smiles and says, 'Pedal.' "
An unknown author scribbled this down, and quite honestly, I couldn't have said it better myself...
At first I saw God as my observer, my judge, keeping track of the things I did wrong, so as to know whether I merited heaven or hell when I die. He was out there sort of like the President. I recognized His picture when I saw it, but I didn’t really know Him.
But later on when I recognized my Higher Power, it seemed as though life was rather like a bike ride, but it was a tandem bike and I noticed that God was in the back helping me pedal.
I don’t know just when it was that He suggested we change places, but life has not been the same since…life with my Higher Power, that is. God makes life exciting.
When I had control, I knew the way. It was rather boring, but predictable. It was the shortest distance between two points.
But when He took the lead, He knew delightful long cuts, up mountains, and through rocky places and at breakneck speeds. It was all I could do to hang on! Even though it looked like madness, He said, “Pedal.”
I worried and was anxious and asked, “Where are You taking me?” He laughed and didn’t answer, and I started to trust.
I forgot my boring life and entered into the adventure, and when I’d say, ‘I’m scared,” He’d lean back and touch my hand.
He took me to people with gifts that I needed, gifts of healing, acceptance, and joy. They gave me their gifts to take on my journey, our journey, God’s and mine.
And we were off again. He said, “Give the gifts away. They’re extra baggage, too much weight.” So I did, to the people we met, and I found that in giving I received, and still our burden was light.
I did not trust Him at first, in control of my life. I thought He’d wreck it. But He knew bike secrets, knew how to make it bend to take sharp corners, jump to clear high places filled with rocks, fly to shorten scary passages.
And I’m learning to shut up and pedal in the strangest places, and I’m beginning to enjoy the view and the cool breeze on my face with my delightful constant companion, my Higher Power.
And when I’m sure I can’t do it any more, He just smiles and says, “PEDAL!”
The title of my blog, "He said, 'Pedal,' " may seem odd and vague, which many of my friends say is indicative of my social behavior. So, on this rare occasion, I will give you a glimpse of the corner of one of the cards I hold so closely to my chest...more appropriately, one of the spokes of my brain wheels, whose tires need balancing and aligning from time to time.
Walk into my family room and see my life-illustrative bicycles hanging on the wall. Yes, I travel "rocky places at breakneck speeds." My comfort comes "just when I'm sure I can't do it anymore, He just smiles and says, 'Pedal.' "
An unknown author scribbled this down, and quite honestly, I couldn't have said it better myself...
THE BIKE RIDE
At first I saw God as my observer, my judge, keeping track of the things I did wrong, so as to know whether I merited heaven or hell when I die. He was out there sort of like the President. I recognized His picture when I saw it, but I didn’t really know Him.
But later on when I recognized my Higher Power, it seemed as though life was rather like a bike ride, but it was a tandem bike and I noticed that God was in the back helping me pedal.
I don’t know just when it was that He suggested we change places, but life has not been the same since…life with my Higher Power, that is. God makes life exciting.
When I had control, I knew the way. It was rather boring, but predictable. It was the shortest distance between two points.
But when He took the lead, He knew delightful long cuts, up mountains, and through rocky places and at breakneck speeds. It was all I could do to hang on! Even though it looked like madness, He said, “Pedal.”
I worried and was anxious and asked, “Where are You taking me?” He laughed and didn’t answer, and I started to trust.
I forgot my boring life and entered into the adventure, and when I’d say, ‘I’m scared,” He’d lean back and touch my hand.
He took me to people with gifts that I needed, gifts of healing, acceptance, and joy. They gave me their gifts to take on my journey, our journey, God’s and mine.
And we were off again. He said, “Give the gifts away. They’re extra baggage, too much weight.” So I did, to the people we met, and I found that in giving I received, and still our burden was light.
I did not trust Him at first, in control of my life. I thought He’d wreck it. But He knew bike secrets, knew how to make it bend to take sharp corners, jump to clear high places filled with rocks, fly to shorten scary passages.
And I’m learning to shut up and pedal in the strangest places, and I’m beginning to enjoy the view and the cool breeze on my face with my delightful constant companion, my Higher Power.
And when I’m sure I can’t do it any more, He just smiles and says, “PEDAL!”
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