When I was 10 years old…

my parents gave me a bicycle for my birthday. I can still picture it to this day. The bike had a sky blue frame and fenders. One third of the back fender was painted white and had a red reflector on it.

The handlebar grips and bike seat were black plastic and not very comfortable. I replaced them with foam grips and a cushioned seat with springs. I even remember riding my bike all the way to city hall to purchase my very first bike license! I felt like a grown up!

I rode my bike everywhere! To a friend’s house who lived across the street. To school every day. To the corner store, and throughout the neighborhood! I loved how the wind travelled through my hair and how my cheeks glowed red.

Going uphill was a struggle but I knew the ride back down would be a thrill! I had a customary route I’d take and knew every speed bump, crack in the road, rocky path to avoid, and smooth pavement where I could let go of the handlebars, raise my arms in the air and pretend I was soaring to heaven.

I loved my bike! When I rode my bike I found a new sense of freedom, movement, and air. I was alive! Oh how glorious this memory has been for me over the years!

Big Shift

As I entered my teenage years I started to struggle with self-image. I was often made fun of at school and kept to myself most of the time. I’d look for secluded corners and empty stairwells where I could hide from all the other students.

During this time, I experienced sexual abuse. Slimy comments from an old man and sexual touching from a teenage boy made me want to crawl into a hole.

All this led me to a compulsive behavior that dramatically impacted me. Food. My comfort and satisfaction. Unfortunately weight gain took its toll on my body. Sitting in front of the TV became much more pleasurable then the physical energy it took to ride my bike.

In some sense I entered a season of death. Death to all the glorious sensations and lived experiences connected with riding my bike.

I lost track of where my bike ended up.

I thought it might have been stolen or sent to the dump. In any event, now that I was a young adult I convinced myself that all those childhood experiences that gave me life was just childish folly that needed to be left behind. Life carried on.

30 years later…

I went to visit my sister Denise at her art studio. Denise’s artwork is profound. Her talent is God-given and is a channel to express her heart’s movements. I’m in awe of the beauty she creates with canvas, paint, and strokes of a brush.

When I arrived I toured her studio to see her latest artwork. As I turned a corner I was dumbstruck to see a vibrant masterpiece. I stopped in my tracks and caught my breath. My eyes gazed at a stunning painting that captivated me with its vivid colors, symmetry, attention to detail, and a most meaningful subject that was happily situated against weathered wood, among maturing foliage.

I said, “That’s my bike.”

Denise replied, “No, that’s Mareva’s bike” (her husband’s niece).

I repeated with subtle insistence, “No. That is my bike.” Denise recalled, “I remember that bike belonged to Mareva.” I responded, “Maybe Mareva got the bike from me? But I KNOW that’s my bike!”

I continued to explain great details of the bike that were undeniably pictured in her painting. The blue color, white fender and red reflector, handle bar grips, bike seat, and the city bike licence affixed to my bike exactly where I placed it way back when.

Curious, I asked Denise, “Where did this image come from”. “Down at Finn Slough” she said. “I went there last year to take some photos that I thought I could paint from. I saw this bike up against an old shed. It was stunning and I knew I was to paint it.”

Finn Slough is a tiny old Finnish fishing community established in the 1880’s. It’s about 25 miles from where I grew up. About 30 residents live there in wooden houses, both floating and built on pilings, along the marshy riverbank.

Sadly, while some buildings have been restored the majority of buildings have severely deteriorated. It was in this fishing village that my sister’s brother-in-law and daughters lived and where Mareva would ride the bike up and down its gravel paths.

Thinking it had only been a year since Denise took those pictures, I decided to drive to Finn Slough to see if I could find my bike. I walked up and down the dusty paths but couldn’t find it.

Feeling fearful of running into strange people and big water rats I decided to leave. Settled that my bike couldn’t be found, I decided the next best thing would be to purchase Denise’s painting. The painting hangs proudly on my front room wall.

A Milestone Birthday

About eight years later I reached a milestone birthday and was struggling with my life. My son was grown and my husband, Rudy, didn’t really need me. Rudy, was and still is a rock star husband who contributed to most of the domestic tasks that I assumed were mine to do as a wife. He cooked, cleaned, did the shopping, and did laundry. I was grateful for his help but I also felt lost and not needed.

During that time I decided to see a Catholic Counsellor for help. I’d never sought counselling before and was very nervous. The first time we met he asked if I would be open to praying before we started.

He led us in prayer and I simply welcomed his leading. At the end of the prayer he said, “A word came to me during our prayer time. I don’t know if this means anything to you and if it doesn’t that’s okay.” He continued, “What is it about you and a bike?”

“WHAT!” I said, shocked. “Are you kidding me?” I then proceeded to tell him the story of my bike. Upon reflection I realized that the Lord gave my counsellor this word as a sign that the journey I was about to embark upon was going to be healing and life-giving! Praise and glory to God!

After this counselling session the desires of my heart to find my bike were whispering to me. Having already resigned that my bike was lost I dismissed the movements of my heart and rationalized that it had been at least 40 years since I had my bike and there was no way it would be found. But the whispers of my heart continued. Finally, after a month of hearing this voice in my heart, I decided to go back to Finn Slough and try again to look for my bike. Maybe, just maybe, this time around I’d be able to find the bike that was a life-line for me.

During this second time of searching I spoke to a couple of people asking if they recalled the family that had lived there. They could not. After walking around for a little bit the voice of resignation spoke forcefully again. “It’s not here”, it suggested. “Don’t be stupid.” and “It’s just an old broken-down bike.”

I left Finn Slough feeling disheartened.