You'll Get Dirty

Dear Mom,

Here’s a vivid memory. We were going somewhere—yeah, real vivid—and apparently had some time to kill. I begged you to let me ride my bike in the schoolyard next door to where we lived. You told me no because I’d get dirty. I whined and begged and said I wouldn’t get dirty. “Please, please let me ride my bike.” You finally gave in. With a smile on my face, I peddled away on my bike—the wind blowing in my face. Not a care in the world, until…

I crashed.

Got all dirty. Skinned my knees. Dreaded coming home—bawling.

I didn’t get a lick of sympathy from you. I received this look and a “Didn’t I tell you you’d get dirty?” I lowered my head in shame. Where does that come from? I didn’t really do anything wrong. I wanted to ride my bike. You agreed—with some prodding. But I crashed. As a kid, I felt God punished me for not listening to you to begin with. That seems all messed up now, doesn’t it?