When I was little,
I rolde my trinke.
Solid and sturdy.
Those three wheels were like my faith.
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
When the turns came,
Smooth and effortless--
I don't fall.
And even if I did,
Daddy was there to catch me.

When I was older,
I rode my bike.
Shaky and wobbly.
The training wheels gone,
Along with my night light.
Soon replaced with a new found sense of freedom.
When the turns came,
The turns I've always known,
Were suddenly different.
Twisty and bumpy.
I fall.
I scape my knee.
With tears in my eyes,
I get back up.
Eager to go again.
Mom was there to bring me a band-aid.

Now I'm old.
And I don't ride my bike--
My helmet?
Long gone.
Just like my childish innocence.
I'm unclear and insecure.
When the turns come,
This time too sharp,
Too unsettling.
I fall.
I'm broken.
I reach out so desperately,
For a hand that is no longer there.
With tears in my eyes,
Can I get back up again?