I sat on a bench in Central Park this breezy afternoon, allowing the sun to soak into my skin. At one point, I looked to my left to notice a fat squirrel sitting right next to me. We locked eyes for a moment, then he scurried away.
“Typical male,” I muttered.
I closed my eyes and listened to the ducks, geese and red robins.
A few minutes later, I heard a child’s consistent crying. I squinted through the bright sunlight to get a better look at the situation.
A little boy on a tricycle slowly pedaled across my path. He pedaled and cried, loudly. The oversized helmet he wore seemed too heavy for his head, yet he managed to keep pedaling.
He teetered and tottered; making jagged, sometimes dangerous sharp turns all over the pavement. He wasn’t in complete control of his tricycle, but managed to stay upright. And in motion.
Pedaling and crying.
Next to the little boy towered his father, who walked slowly, steadfastly and silently beside him. He kept an eye on his son, who kept pedaling and crying.
“I know how that feels,” I thought, and smiled.
I recalled a recent conversation I had with my dear friend A.D. Adams :
“Sometimes moving forward doesn’t necessarily mean in a straight line. And your Father, his wisdom, compassion and love, will always walk silently beside you in the very same way. Just as he knows — and anyone else who knows you — you’ll keep pedaling!”