I stared at the monitor, watched the words, interrupted by spaces, flow from left to right across the screen. Line-by-line, the screen filled. The words formed sentences and then paragraphs. Moments before, they were thoughts in my head—a personal thing—but now flowed from me in streams to be shared with anyone who cared to read.
I watched the words string together like pearls on a necklace, each one complimenting the other. A story formed. My fingers danced over the keyboard. Thoughts, words, sentences, and paragraphs became an endless chain.
I glanced down and realized I was touch-typing. It’s a skill I don’t have. I looked at the screen and tried to type without looking, but the fingers that once danced so gracefully began to stumble. The pearls knotted. Words became the gibberish of a child just learning to speak.
I thought about my grandson Benny. He rode his bike, training wheels holding him steady. The time came when the training wheels no longer touched the ground. He’d gained the balance and confidence needed to stay up right—to go on his own. His daddy
removed the training wheels. “Ben, you don’t need these anymore.”
“But what if I fall?” Benny asked.
“I’ll hold your seat until you’re ready.” Nathan assured his son.
Benny climbed onto his bike and began to pedal. Nathan held the seat. Ben was fine until Nathan said, “OK! You’re on your own. Go, Benny!”
Benny rode steady for several feet, wobbled and fell. He picked himself up and whined. “Daddy, I can’t do it!”
Like me, Benny was fine as long as he knew there was someone to support him. With my typing, I needed my eyes. On their own, my fingers failed me. Benny needed the knowledge that the training wheels or his daddy would be there when he stumbled.
My life has been full of those “First-Step” moments. I hugged my Mum and thanked her for holding my seat until I was steady enough to pedal into a new life.
She hugged me on the day I married my first wife Georgia. “Michael, I’m proud of you.” She let go. I pedaled on.
I held my first child and was afraid. Was I strong enough to hold their seat until they were ready to ride?
One day I held Georgia’s hand. She prepared for a new ride. She took her last breath. I let go. She pedaled on.
I was alone. I stumbled. One of the hands that held me steady was gone. I was alone far from home and family. I pedaled, wobbled, and crashed a few times.
Ginny came into my life. Her ride had been unsteady too. Her first husband Harvey died several months before Georgia. In each other, we found a hand to hold our seat when we wobbled.
I then learned about a hand that is always there to hold me steady. The hand allows me to ride, but when I wobble, it holds my seat. It steadies me. You have that same hand. It’s your God. He’s always there. He’s always ready to hold your seat. He wants you to ride, but when you begin to wobble, he’s there to hold you up. You have to have faith in his hand.
He’ll hold your seat.
