We just moved, and you haven’t heard from me in awhile. I’ve been busy unpacking boxes and hanging pictures. In between all that boring stuff, though, I’ve taken a few walks. We live right by this amazing trail system, and the other day I took my dog out for a hike. Lots of people were out and about—kids on skateboards, couples holding hands, and families on bikes.
I passed a dad and his two daughters on bikes. One of the daughters, about six years old, was walking with her bike, had just thrown it down, and was crying, “I can’t! I can’t do it! I’m not going!” And she sat down right in the middle of the path and let it wail. I came upon the family at exactly this moment. The dad sighed. He got off his bike. I kept walking, but I could hear her crying even from a long way off. And it wasn’t getting any quieter.
The thing is, I knew something that this little girl didn’t know. I knew exactly how far she had to go to get to the end of the trail. I also knew that there was no way her dad could manage his own bike, his daughter, and his daughter’s bike. No matter how long she sat there and cried, eventually she was going to have to get up and get moving. No one was going to carry her. The only way forward was to pick up the bike, get on it, and pedal.
And I began to think about all of us, grownups participating in some version of this hissy fit. Tired of wearing masks. Tired of taking meetings via Zoom. Tired of everything being either canceled or delayed because of Covid 19.
But let’s be honest. We were complaining about our lives long before we had time on our hands to really get upset about it. I can think of lots of times over the past year when I’ve wanted to press pause on my life. None of us needs a pandemic to catapult our lives into panic mode. Have you ever said, “I can’t! I can’t do it! I’m not going to go!” ?
But not going isn’t an option. The only way forward is through.
Ultimately, that must have been what happened with our friend on the pavement because by the time I got to the end of the trail, turned around and came back, the bike family was nowhere to be seen. My guess is that the dad laid down his bike and offered his daughter a hand. Perhaps he held her for a few minutes. Wiped her tears. Gave her a kiss. Offered her a drink of water. And then with renewed sustenance and vigor, she got back on the bike and kept going.
Pain is temporary.
And so, as with all journeys, there is something to be said for taking this approach: just keep going. I know I will have to pause at times. I know I won’t always be able to go as fast as I want to go. I know some hills will appear too tall to climb. Perhaps I will have to get off my bike and walk it for awhile. Or maybe I’ll have to find an alternate route. But if I keep going I can imagine that in a few months or a few years, the world won’t always feel like this. And if I keep pedaling, I can guarantee that in a few months or a few years I will certainly be stronger than I am today.
One of the most fascinating things about life is that we willingly inflict pain on ourselves in order to increase our strength, but when pain is inflicted upon us, we want to sprawl in the road and cry.
So keep going. The only way forward is THROUGH. Pain is temporary, but progress makes us stronger.
And strength is a valuable virtue.
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(Special thanks to our friends at Boosterthon for making it possible.)