“My PT said I could ride my bike again if I want.”

My old friend sat near me in the coffee shop as our conversation wandered far afield last week.  There was purpose in our visit, but it has been a while since we sat and spoke.

We used to sit for hours on our bicycle seats (what little there is of them) and talk as our magic machines ate up the miles, the twenty-nine-inch wheels spinning at approximately 185.6 RPM.  Perhaps fewer, sometimes.  And more, less often.  I hope that’s not too confusing.

What I’m saying is that we rode long distances—usually slowly. And sometimes fast, but only for shorter distances.

Just over three months ago my friend had an accident and hasn’t been able to ride at all since then.  Until this week.  It’s been hard for him.  The pain was constant and, at times, unbearable.  And, when you can’t do what you love, it’s not only the pain that wreaks havoc on your mind and emotions.

Then, on that day last week, his physical therapist had given him a glimmer of promise, of expectation.

I rejoiced with him in his hope.

We stayed.  Much longer than we had planned, sitting in that one spot, offering (and perceiving) insights into our faith—our intellect—even our hearts.  Three hours after we dropped into the comfortable chairs, we finally stood again.

As I stood, I felt a twinge in my lower back.  It’s not unusual.  I am aging.  I’ve not been kind to my body over the years and, if a twinge is the price for a few hours of communion with an old friend, I’ll pay the price.

I didn’t realize it was the last time I’d stand easily for at least a week, perhaps longer.  The doctor I visited with this afternoon didn’t seem all that optimistic for a quick and easy solution to the crippling pain I’ve lived with since that day.  Perhaps, I’m reading more into his words than he intended. Still, I’m not wearing any rose-colored glasses.

A phrase from a children’s movie in the 1980s comes to my mind as I write tonight.  I see the Rockbiter character from The Neverending Story as he sits gazing at his hands which have failed him miserably.  His somber, almost despairing voice repeats the words;

“They look like good, strong hands, don’t they?”

It’s not the first time I’ve faced this truth.  And, I’m not sure it ever gets easier.  It should, but I’m not sure it does.

I’m not invincible.  I have no guarantee that I’ll be able to continue as I’ve begun.  No one does.

The treasure (Grace and Light, given as a gift) followers of Jesus hold is held in hands and bodies of clay.  They may appear strong.  They could even stay intact for most of a lifetime, seeming to prove the strength of the holders, the pilgrims themselves.

They’re not. Strong, that is.

Strength is loaned—a stewardship to be used as long as we can wield it.  But, it was never ours.

Never.

“We now have this light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves.”
(2 Corinthians 4: 7, NLT)

Vessels of clay.  It doesn’t seem all that hopeful, does it?

Still, there is a glimmer—promises made to us many years ago.

We may be pressed, but we are not crushed.
We are sometimes perplexed, but we are not in despair.
We might seem to be prey for the hunter, but we haven’t been left defenseless;
Ah!  And when we are knocked down, it is never a permanent condition.
(My paraphrase of the verses that follow the verse just above)

I stood yesterday and held back the tears as my neighbor consoled me, averring it was okay that I couldn’t help her with a task I’d done for several years.  I don’t know how long it will be before I can help her with it again.

For some reason, last night, I watched a video clip of that scene from the movie mentioned above and almost felt the creature’s despair.  Almost.

But, moments later, I went to sleep with words from the Psalm writer, the warrior musician, in my head.  They are well-known words that he wrote to remind his victorious army that the strength they had been loaned was different from that of the world around them.

“Some trust in chariots and some in horses,
    but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.”
(Psalm 20:7, NIV)

God’s hands are big, strong hands!

Today, some folks I love pulled into my driveway and asked if I would unlock my storage barn so they could get to my lawnmowers and other lawn tools.  One asked for a short tutorial on using my riding mower.  The others filled tanks with gasoline and checked the oil.

My lawn was going to be mowed.  I couldn’t do it for myself, so they did.

But, before they started, they asked about my neighbor.  Splitting up, they mowed mine and hers.  In the hot sun, the strong young folks labored in the strength they’ve been loaned.  Then they asked if they could take care of the neighbor on the other side of me, who usually can count on me to work in her yard, too.

I’m not crying.  You are.

Okay.  I am. A little.

Every good gift—every perfect gift—comes from Above.

I’m not invincible.  I know that.  I won’t ever be.

I may be capable again.  Time will tell.  Still, I’ll never be invincible.

But, I am indomitable.  At least, I’m working at it.

Steadfast.  Unyielding.

They are Good, Strong Hands.

And, they’re holding us.

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.