My first lesson on compassion

My bed did not have time to get cold as I leapt out of it on that Christmas morning and bounded up the stairs to our family room. As I rounded the corner I could see it, the shiny chrome, the deep dark black of the rubber, the red and blue streamers cascading from the handlebars, and the banana seat that had all the colors of the rainbow. My first bicycle was a thing of beauty. That bicycle was the ticket to a new world for me. I had plans and visions of new adventures in store. It was another milestone, I was old enough to leave my mother’s line of vision, the only barrier between me and freedom was to learn how to control those two wheels. I had no fear, and no patience, I was ready to jump on that banana seat and head off in whatever direction my heart desired.

My mind was lost in daydreams of long paved sidewalks and wild packs of ten years olds on their bicycles roaming the neighborhood with me in the lead. I do not remember any other presents I opened on that Christmas morning, I certainly did not care about my sister’s presents which I am sure she was opening at a snail’s pace, as she always did, to prolong my agony. I do not remember breakfast, although I am sure Mom made egg’s benedict like she does every Christmas morning. What I do remember is finally that afternoon,sitting on the banana seat, at the end of my driveway. My dad was giving me all sorts of instructions on how to brake, how to balance, how to steer, and I was not listening to a word. Finally, my dad gave me a push, I started to peddle as fast as I could, and in less than a minute, crash! I was on the ground, crying and bleeding, this was not how my adventure was supposed to start, it was not supposed to be this hard, the excitement was gone and the fear had descended on me like a shroud.

My father picked me up and carried me in his his arms into the house, he offered me words of comfort and assurance and reminded me of his unfailing love for me. He cleaned me up and put a band-aid on my skinned knee. But he could not fix my battered and broken spirit. He asked me if I was ready to take another try, and I was not! Fear had taken hold of me, now I had experienced the pain that could happen from failure, it took a few days of my mother and father, encouraging and cajoling me, nursing my broken spirit, before I mounted that banana seat again. This time with the feeling of fear in my mind and the band-aid on my knee a visual reminder of my recent failure I once again climbed onto the bicycle. This time... I had elicited assurances from my father that he would not let go and from my mother who stood by with a make-shift first aid kit, in case I fell again. I did fall again, and I have fallen many times over the years, sometimes my parents have picked me up, other times friends, and even occasionally doctors have patched my wounds with various band-aids. But I have learned a band-aid does not bring healing to the physical, spiritual and emotional wounds of our lives. We need much more, we need our Lord, who abounds with grace and is infinitely compassionate.