My Trike

My oldest sister told me I needed to post this. I wrote it about 5 years ago and it remains one of my most favorite writings. Here's to you, Joyce, and memories of a great childhood!

My Trike

Today my trike came home; came home to my heart.

It had weathered many a storm and many a threat since my childhood,

but now, it is safely at home.

Ah, the days of the trike. Life could not have been better than in those days.

I can still feel the wind through my hair as my little legs pumped up and down as fast as they could go.

Gliding. Gliding was fun. One foot on the back of the trike and the other

foot pushing off...then away I would sail.

By the time I went off to school, I was too big to ride you anymore. You went away to the barn. I visited you now and then and dreamed that one day my children would ride you and experience that same joy and laughter that you had given to me.

I got my own home and moved you here, but my kids wanted bikes, not trikes. So, you sat and you waited.

Some tried to take you to the dump, but I rescued you. I could not let you go. You represented one of the happiest times of my life.

I always thought I should fix you up, to make you look as you did in your glory days, but life was busy with work, and family and trying to please others. The one I loved most would have thought it a waste of time to fix you and he would have never let you in the house.

Still, you waited.

The one I loved left. Life was pain. I would walk past you when I went to the barn and think back to those happy days. But now life was busy with trying to survive. I did not have time to fix you, so still you waited.

Then one day a wise man said, "Your trike doesn't need fixing. It tells a story. Just look at it and read the story."

Today I put you in my own bathtub and I washed off the dirt and there it was, before my eyes; your story.

I put you in a special place, right next to my rocker and I cried as I read your story. It is the precious story of my childhood.

Little trike, I am sorry about the dented fender. I am sure it was caused by one of those wrecks we had with my sister and her trike. I wasn't a real good driver back then.

Look at that seat. I remembered well those little legs pumping as they rubbed the paint off the side of the seat. And the platform on the back...paint worn off from all that gliding.

As I look at you and those worn wheels, I remember that my love of cruising around corners all started with you. I loved screeching around corners with you. I remember ending up with more than one skinned knee as I practiced those feats, but that did not deter me.

Trike, could it be that you and I have some things in common? Could it be, that all my bumps and bruises...all the dents and rust...they show a story. Who I am now tells a story. My physical beauty has faded, but could it be that when people look at me, they see a story of pain, yes, but also a story of the God who loves me and will one day take me home. Home to his heart.