Forgive Me, Father

Over a decade ago, yes, a decade, my three children gave me a bicycle for Christmas ... a burgundy, 21-speed, Pacific Odyssey bicycle. They hid the bike at a neighbor's house and then sent me on a scavenger hunt on Christmas morning to find it. I hadn't had a nice bike for many, many years, and I well remember the emotion that swept through me as I ran my hand across the shiny new cycle. I'm not sure I ever told my kids, but there were two things about them giving me the bike that meant a ton to me. First, it made me realize they had listened to my stories about how much I used to love to bike ride ... they had listened not only with their ears, but with their hearts ... they understood the deep meaning their gift would hold for me. Second, it was super special that they wanted the four of us to go on bike rides together ... that they weren't embarrassed to be seen pedaling alongside a large, gray-haired mother who quite often had to lumber off the seat and push her bike up a hill. In case I haven't said it throughout the course of penning this blog, I really do have amazing children.

After not riding my bike for more years than I care to own up to, I decided a week or so ago that I wanted to start biking again. I got no farther than putting on my helmet when I realized that there could possibly be an issue or two that I was going to have to deal with before I could ride off into the sunset. The last time I wore my bike helmet I was, oh, 150 or so pounds heavier than I am now ... yep, even my head has lost weight, and my helmet was way, way too big. And of course it was an older model so it didn't have the cool little adjusting wheel bandy thing that new helmets do. So the first thing I did was buy a new helmet, not because I really thought I needed one since I'm an excellent bike rider but because people I've met on the trail would fuss at me if I didn't wear one. I was about 20 minutes away from home on my first ride (all downhill, by the way) when I came to a slight incline ... that's when I discovered that out of 21 possible speeds, the gears on my bike would only shift into two of those speeds ... hard and hardest. So after I pushed my bicycle up all the inclines and finally got back home, I decided to load it into my car and drop it off at the repair shop the next day. I assured myself as I placed my claim ticket in the passenger seat when I climbed back into the car that all my bike needed was a good cleaning and a tune-up. Well ... suffice it to say that I now have an all-new gear and braking system installed on my beloved bicycle ... along with a new helmet, front and rear lights, a little bag to hold my phone and garage door opener, and some totally cool gloves with gel pockets in the palms.

One of my all-time favorite movies is Dances With Wolves ... I know, I know, you've read those words several times if you've been reading along with me for a while, but there really is a wealth of wisdom and life lessons in that film. In fact, I think one of the most powerful movie scenes I've ever watched takes place near the beginning of Dances With Wolves. The character played by Kevin Costner, Lieutenant John J. Dunbar, is injured in battle during the Civil War, and he hears the surgeons discussing amputating his leg. When the doctors leave to get some coffee before sawing off Dunbar's leg, he manages to pull his boot on his wounded leg and hobble back to the front lines of the battle. As he talks with another soldier, he makes a decision ... he would rather die than to live without his leg. He manages to climb into the saddle of a superior officer's horse and rides across the field in front of the enemy ... giving them every opportunity to kill him. Apparently, the soldiers all had less than stellar shooting skills, because not one bullet even grazed Dunbar. When he reaches the other end of the line of soldiers, he wonders in disbelief that he wasn't hit. While each of those movie moments were powerful and mesmerizing to watch, it was the scene that followed that had a huge impact on me ... enough impact that I still can picture it in my mind today some 22 years after I first saw the film.

With determination etched onto his face, Dunbar kicks the horse's sides and begins another pass in front of the firing guns and shouting enemy soldiers. He whispers the words, "Forgive me, Father," extends his arms and closes his eyes as the horse once again carries him safely across the field and away from the fighting. You see, while the enemy soldiers were distracted by Dunbar's two-time attempt at suicide, the Union army attacked and won the battle against the Confederate soldiers. In an ironic twist of fate, John J. Dunbar became a hero ... he was given the best medical treatment available and allowed to properly recover, received a citation for bravery, awarded with the horse who carried him, and told he could have his choice of locations to finish out his military service. The rest of the story is best told through watching the film for yourself ... but ... but ... but ... on the day when Lieutenant John J. Dunbar was ready to end his life, when he was certain that his life needed to be over ... that's the day his life truly began.

I know you're probably wondering what my bicycle and Lieutenant Dunbar's ride across the field have to do with one another, but again, if you've been reading along with me for any time at all, you know there's usually a connection in my seemingly warped mode of thinking. For some reason when I'm out riding my bike alone, whether in the past or now that I've started riding again, there is always a moment when I think of that scene from Dances With Wolves. And when I think of it, I take my hands off the handlebars, extend my arms and whisper the words, "Forgive me, Father." I did it last night when I rode, and I did it this morning, too. As I was getting ready for work, I had what I believe is a rather profound thought ... that scene and my acting it out as I ride means more to me now than it ever did before. Perhaps it's because I feel the need to utter the words, "Forgive me, Father," now more than at any other time in my life. Perhaps it's because I've been to that field myself, the field where death seemed more appealing than life. Perhaps it's because God simply wants me to understand that He can cause any day ... that He can cause every single day ... to be the day that my life truly begins.