letting go

My little girl came up to me after dinner.

“Daddy—won’t you please come outside with me and help me ride my two-wheelerd?”

She was describing a tiny bicycle that had been loaned to us by friends. The bike was even too small for a three-year old, but my little girl didn’t know that, and was intent on catching up to her older sister.

I was tired. I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt that was more appropriate for the air conditioned office where I had spent my day than for a humid early evening in Minnesota. I had a hundred reasons why a sister or a neighbor should run behind the little girl’s bike, sweating and straining to reach down low enough to keep pushing such a small person—after all, I’d spent hours doing the same thing to try to teach her sister.

“Daddy—PLEASE— can you help me?”

It was one of those times when we are given grace to do what is better, even when we long to do only what is permissible. I stood up and smiled at her.

“Sweetheart— let’s find your helmet."

We found the overly large helmet in the garage. The little girl wore blue overalls and sandals. Her face beamed. Her loose-fitting helmet looked crazy on such a small head. Wisps of her fine, light brown hair lay across her forehead where afternoon play had left them. Ever in need of Band-Aids, several of the colorful strips had been lovingly applied here and there on fingers and elbows to mark previous unsuccessful tries to ride the “two-wheelerd."

I pushed her on her tiny bike along the driveway and down into the level circle in front of our house. I tried to remember all the things I had done to help her sister learn. It seemed so many years ago and in a more innocent time and place.

My hand rested on the small shoulders, trying to keep the little girl’s body upright—trying to steer and yet only to push; trying to hold and yet to release. As I ran along, breathing hard and shouting encouragement, I became aware of the picture being painted. A tired daddy was suddenly posing for a moment that captures all moments of parenthood—craving the eventual independence of our little girls—yet dreading it more than death.

We slowed. She had stayed upright for a fraction of a second on her own. Though I couldn’t see her face below the helmet, something in her hands told me that new-found determination was surging within the little girl. It was then that the neighbor boy stepped onto his porch a few houses down.

The little girl saw him. Though daddy was there to push, her mind focused on making an impression—on capturing the interest of a different young man. She yelled to him.
“Look at me—watch me ride my bike!”

I ran with her, steadying her as she pedaled. I could tell something new was happening.

She pulled away from me, riding alone for 30 yards across the pavement toward the boy. I ran to catch up, my long sleeved shirt untucked, sweat on my brow. I yelled to her.

“Sweetie— you DID it!”

She turned and looked right at me. I will never forget her face. Her eyes were twinkling. Though she didn’t say anything at first, I thought I could hear what her heart was singing. It was a short and simple song in the quiet voice of a 3-year-old girl, and the word “daddy” was in it. I thanked Jesus that I was there to hear that magical song, and to see that beautiful face.

Did she ride away from me forever that day? She didn’t. She came back. I’m sure we argued later about taking a bath. I’m sure we finished the day with a hug and a kiss. But I know another day will come when the little girl will ride away again—and she’ll disappear around some corner or into some sunset. When that day comes, will I remember how it felt to try to hold and yet to release? Will I remember her face and the magical song that only a heart can sing?

The little boy called out in amazement.

She answered proudly— “Stay there—I’ll do it again.”


8.22.97