Bicycle Salvation

Growing up in a large family meant lots of things—lots of chaos, lots of bickering, lots of laughter and lots of hand-me-downs. Being the youngest in a large family meant that I was the prime target for most of the hand-me-downs in the Cooper house. Some of them were greatly coveted and cherished—like my sister Michele’s bell-bottom jeans with the patches on them or my sister Lee’s cassette tape deck I inherited when she went off to college. Some of the hand-me-downs were much less of a joy to receive—like the Dorothy Hamill haircut Michele and I sported for about 4 years in the early 80’s.

However, there were some things my parents knew needed to be “brand-new” if at all possible and my first bike was one of those things. I remember it clearly—we were living in Jacksonville, Florida at the time and I was 5 years old. For Christmas, I got my dream bike. It was everything I wanted—from the blue glittery banana seat with the white trim to the matching streamers hanging from the handlebars. It was perfect. Sigh. This bike was also the second scariest thing I had ever faced in my five long years on Earth. (The scariest event to that point was my first American Halloween—I dressed as Little Orphan Annie and sat in shock as my parents sifted through my American candy to make sure there were no needles in them. Talk about scarring.)

But anyway, back to my perfect bike. Sigh. I loved that bike and I loved it when my Dad (mutton chops and all!) pulled me into the church parking lot beside my house and taught me to ride my brand new bike. Sigh. I remember being so scared, but excited at the same time. I remember my Dad running beside me as I pedaled as fast and as hard as my little legs could. I remember the wind in my hair—this was WAY pre-helmet days—and the scenery passing by in a blur.

I also remember falling many, many, many times. And each time I did, my Dad came running over, gently brushed off the dirt and brushed away the tears, and put me back on the bike and ran along side me as I regained my confidence. I remember crying “Don’t let go, Daddy—I am not ready yet…” and sure enough, eventually he let go and I actually was ready. For about 15 feet. I’d crash land and then we’d start all over again.

Eventually 15 feet became 20 feet and 20 feet became forever. I can still hear my Dad yelling pointers at me as I rode circles around that parking lot. “Sit up straight!” or “Don’t run into that bush!” When I started to lose my balance and fall off kilter, he was always there. Helping. Soothing. And sometimes chastising me when I deliberately did something foolish. No matter how good at riding my bike I became, I still had spills and tumbles. But I took them in stride. Falling off is just part of the gig. But, Dad was only a shout away and always came when I needed help getting back on the bike and back on track.

Tonight I was at Lee’s house and having a discussion with Lee, my 16 year old niece Emily and my 14 year old nephew Nathan. We were discussing the sermon our pastor preached this morning on the second coming of Christ. Nathan, in a fit of frustration said, “I know! I know! Once saved, always saved… But how do you know if you’re really saved to begin with?!” And so began this journey. I tried to articulate to him that it’s just something you know… but the HOW part was coming up short.

On the drive home, I began to really ponder this conversation. HOW do I know that I really am saved and don’t just think I am saved because I am ticking all the right boxes? Church? Check! Bible reading? Semi-Check! Prayer? Check! Tithe? Uh…

Then it hit me. How do I know I am saved? I know because when I am riding this bike through life and I fall off, I hear that voice that says, “Jenny—don’t run into that bush!” I hear the voice of God encouraging me practice good form and sit up straight. I sink into the embrace of the Holy Spirit comforting me in my grief. I feel the hand of God when I feel shaky—as if my balance is so precarious that I could fall off the right path at any minute. And when I do fall off the right path and make sinful choices? I am chastised and brought back to the right path.

In all my ways and sinful dealings, I can always hear the voice of God calling me home and convicting me of my wrongdoing. It’s like learning to ride that bike—God’s there beside me, directing me and encouraging me. And when I fall off? I still know he’s there—pointing me in the right direction to get out of the mess I have fallen into and holding my hand all along the way. All I have to do is cry out to Him and He will be there. It’s because of that voice that convicts and chastises that I know.

And in that conviction and chastisement I find comfort.