Riding my Turquoise Bike Past Her House in the Spring...

I love my turquoise bike.

It has what I call a mama bottom seat. You know, a seat made for a mama-sized bottom. Not some tiny uncomfortable contraption.

I had been eyeing it for awhile, looking longingly through the window of our small town hardware store each time I rode by on my hand-me-down ten speed, taken by the way the sun reflected off it's frosty blue goodness.

It was July, several years ago...the week of my birthday...when Tim handed me the money and told me to go get the bike as a present.

The first place I rode my new bike was to my mother's house. She smiled and said that she was just about to do the same thing. She knew how I loved to ride my bike, and how much I had wanted the shiny turquoise bike that had been calling to me from the hardware store window. She bought me a pink backpack, instead...to carry my library books when James and I rode our bikes to get books. Her house was always on my bike route. And, we would often stop there to pet her dog Pebbles, get James a drink (he is always thirsty), and grab some tomatoes from the garden. Even after she went home to heaven, her house remained on our route. We would stop and chat with Grandpa, pet Pebble, and get James a drink.

I still ride my bike, sometimes with James chatting away alongside me, and sometimes on my own. And, her house is still on our bike route.

Only now, it isn't her house anymore, or mine, or the house of my children's grandmother. Someone else has bought my mother's house. Her husband remarried and moved away last summer. Someone else will wash the dishes in the sink that I washed so many dishes in, while listening to the oldies with the summer breeze blowing the scent of lilacs in the windows, and the faint whir of mopeds humming in the distance.

The first bike ride we took this year we went around the reservoir lifting our legs as our bike sped down the muddy hill, life blooming all around as spring awakens from its winter sleep.  Her house came into view. And, I stopped, overwhelmed with the nostalgia washing over me. My eyes settled on the deck Tim built, where I sat on the swing, watching the boys swim in the pool that's no longer there. My throat swelled, and I shook the tears away.

James was with me, and I didn't want to dwell long on the sad. I didn't want to ruin the first bike ride of spring. Still, my heart ached with such longing I could barely breathe.

Last week, I started off on my ride, alone, over the creek bridge, muddy waters rushing fast, full of spring rain. I crossed the bumpy railroad tracks that surround my neighborhood and past the Methodist church, rode around the school, past the pool park and around the ball diamond, remembering the summers when all my friend Nicki and I did was ride around town, waiting for something to happen and dreaming our summer dreams.

I crossed Main Street and Ron's Super Valu, then over more bumpy tracks until I reached her road.

I've mentioned before how each season, the missing washes over me anew. Spring is no exception.

But this year, this year is different.

This year, when I ride past her house, the house where I grew up, I cannot stop and get a water and pet Pebbles.

I road by, drinking in the sight, allowing the ache to fully envelope me. My eyes settled where the flag used to fly so proudly, her rock garden that she and Grandpa proudly laid by hand, the pink stencil she painted on the gas tank.

Her lilac bush, not yet blooming.

And, her clothesline...with the clothespins still clipped to the top. She loved to hang the clothes out to dry in the summer breeze, and was quite dedicated, even tromping out in the mud in her snow boots.

That did it. The tears spilled over, and my chest heaved, as I pedalled away from the memories, the hurt, and the missing. Or I tried, but it followed me. It followed me as I rode over the bridge where the wildflowers bloom tall in the summer and past the field still muddy with spring, over the tracks again and around the reservoir hill. Still...I pedalled my turquoise bike, tears streaming, chest heaving.

By the time I rounded the corner of my road and pulled into my stone driveway, the tears were dry.

I rolled the turquoise bike into the garage, hugged my husband, and started supper for my family.

Time marches on, and the missing washes over me anew each season. It probably always will. Even more reason to make memories with those we love. Even more reason to soak in the gift of right now, with a grateful heart. Even more reason to cling to Jesus, and not the fleeting things of this world.

For, no season on this earth lasts forever.

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A Blessed Easter to you and yours....love and prayers for those missing someone during this spring season of hope and renewal.

Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live. And whoever lives and believes in Me shall never die. Do you believe this?” John 11:25-26