New Home for the Bike
Long before the COVID-19 toilet-paper-and-bottled-water rush that ensued this week, I had been contemplating what I wanted....needed...to write about today, March 15. So that’s what I’m going to stick with, and I will end with a couple of thoughts about the prevailing topic of the day.
The Saturday after last Thanksgiving when I began unpacking Christmas stuff, I discovered that the bottom portion of our artificial pre-lit tree, which when fully assembled is reminiscent of the multi-colored flashing lights lining the Vegas strip, had not been packed in the tub with the other 2/3 of the tree. Much to my chagrin, I found that misplaced section to the right of the garage door.
When I had picked up Chandler’s bike at the sheriff’s department shortly after January 1, 2019, I had placed it carefully at the front of the garage. I will admit my spatial sense when parking is not exemplary, so out of an abundance of wisdom, Chip found it a new home out of harm’s way at the back of the garage. It was now sharing space with the misplaced bottom section of the Christmas tree.
I had to pick up the bike and maneuver it to the side in order to extricate the tree. Touching the bike, I could not help but think back to December 15, a year earlier, when Chandler had been holding onto those handle bars, sitting on that seat, and sometimes standing to power those pedals on his way to Board & Brew for his evening shift. I have seen my son ride his bike countless times. I can picture him riding to work on December 15 wearing his Santa hat. What came next, I have never seen, so I have no reference for it. Why does my psyche insist on knowing what it can’t know and at the same time resist knowing it at all?
All of this from simply moving a bike to get to a Christmas tree.
A few weeks ago, I pulled into the garage to find Chandler’s pride and joy, his custom army green BMX bike, hanging safely from a hook in the ceiling at the front of the garage. It was difficult for Chip to hang the bike. To handle the bent, scratched frame. To remember December 15. That it was the last ride Chandler would take on this bike.
I got out of my car and stared at it. Chandler had carefully chosen every element of that bike, from frame to pedals to chain. He was as at home on that bike as he was in his own bed. Despite the many scrapes and bruises from trying every trick imaginable, he felt free, unfettered, and alive on that bike. They had literally flown together, defied gravity.
And now here hangs a symbol of life and death amidst the everyday ordinariness of pulling into the garage. I feel simultaneously a sense of reverence and a sense of resentment. This bike gave Chandler some of his greatest joys, and it gave us our most profound sorrow. I know if Chandler were here, he would say, “Don’t blame my bike. That’s an awesome bike.” Maybe in time, I will look at that bike and remember Chandler flying high in all his glory. Maybe I won’t travel back and relive December 15 as a default. Maybe in time, I will look at the bike and smile. Maybe.
Now for a word about COVID-19, coronavirus. We all agree that if Chandler were here, he would be convinced he had coronavirus, with or without symptoms, and would quarantine himself in his room until he was certain it had passed.
At the end of this week, as I read about schools closing and events being canceled and people hoarding toilet paper and bottled water in response to COVID-19, I came across this by Richard Rohr, “I am now personally convinced that Jesus’ ability to find a higher order inside constant disorder is the very heart of his message—and why true Gospel, as rare as it might be, still heals and renews all that it touches.“
Dear Lord, give us a vision for your higher order in the midst of disorder. Help us to live out true Gospel. Let your peace surpass all fear. Amen.
