Mac has been bicycling without training wheels for about a week now. Until yesterday, I've been right there, physically holding him upright, then jogging, and finally bicycling beside him through the neighborhood.
There haven't been many spills, and--so far--no scrapes or tears! I'm grateful; I really wanted him to have a few good miles of grins behind him before the inevitable major bang-up, bawling, and bandages.
Yesterday, I sent him ahead on solo missions, as I walked with Trevan who was peddling on his own tricycle. I would send Mac to the next cul-de-sac, or around the next bend along the same route he and I had been taking together the past week.
"Okay, Dad. I'll see you later; you're sure proud of me, huh?" His voice fading as he pedaled away, leaving us far behind. It was fun, a neat experience, to give him that sense of freedom, and he was devouring it.
On the other hand, each time as he disappeared around the corner, I was ambushed by all those Daddy worries. And then an SUV would pass us from behind heading toward my unseen son somewhere up ahead. Will Mac stay near the side of the road like I've been reminding him? Will the driver take the turns slowly? Is anyone backing out of their driveway? If anything serious happens, what kind of father am I to let such a green bicycler out of my sight?
This is a part of it, though, of parenting, right? This is the strange balance we play between protecting and removing that protection. We give more and more freedom, let them make decisions, let them take risks with their lives and our hearts, and hope that some of what we've said, that we've practiced with them, will become their own.
They must increase. We must decrease.
And then I thought of our Father. I don't buy into the deists' clock-making-sit-back-and-watch god, nor the everything-is-predestined-and-happens-for-a-reason god. I do believe that--finally--God can weave resurrection and new life, his will for all, from the horrible mess of things. (Mayhem is a part of his medium.) In the meantime, though, our freedom is the risk God takes, freedom to leave him far behind, to forget, to ignore, to hurt ourselves and others even horribly, murderously, or accidentally. These results of that freedom and risk--the anxiety, disappointment, and heartache--are unfathomable to me.
But finally, the long moments pass, and back from around the bend Mac appears with his huge toothless grin. Trevan voices my own relief, "Look, it's Mac. He's back!" Mac's joy and pride are only exceeded by mine. These, too, are some of the results of freedom and risk: joy, success, love, and being alive.
And again, I imagine ours is a fraction of the Father's experience.
