My Bike

My bike must be a bizillion years old.  Or is that a brazillion?  I never can remember.

I don't remember where it came from.  Local legend says that it came from my brother-in-law, Alan.  Is that true?  (Someone wake him up and ask him!)  It's not the prettiest bike in the universe, and certainly not the newest. I mean, the silly thing only has ten speeds.  Do you know how long it's been since bikes went from ten speeds to eighteen or twenty-one?  I don't.  But I think it's been a long time.

I've had this bike since ... sometime in the last century.  (That sounds like a really long time, but it's really only twenty years or so.)  I used to have to have one that I rode to work back when "work" was at the Boeing plant, but that one broke in half one day on my way home, and I had to find another.  Being a  cheapskate, I didn't go out and buy one, because that would've involved spending actual money.  Instead, I got this one.  From someone. 

It's been ridden only occasionally over the last eight years since we moved to Michigan, mostly in the summer.  Because no one rides bikes around here in the winter.  Something about lack of traction in the snow, I think.  Consequently, it has received very little attention, and even less maintenance.  It just works.

This summer, owing to the fact that my Subaru is out of commission, it has seen a lot more use than ever before simply because it has become my primary means of transport between home and work.  And my primary means of getting exercise.  Together, we get a thirty-minute workout in the morning, and another thirty-minute workout in the afternoon.  So it's being used an hour a day, five hours a week.  And, in that time, I've come to notice several "deficiencies".

The seat won't tighten to the frame, so when I sit on it, it rotates.  It's kind of like sitting on a merry-go-round while trying to pedal.  But not nearly as much fun.

The handgrips keep sliding off the handlebars.  I'm not sure why.  They're rubber and should grip firm, but apparently the metal beneath is slick enough that they slide.

The rear derailleur doesn't work correctly.  The first three gears shift too quickly, and the last gear hardly shifts at all.

The pedal bearing grinds.

The chain needs oiling.

The brakes need replacing.

But it works.

And it gets me  to work.

And that's enough.

==

My bike has no rack for carrying things, so I have been forced to improvise a method of carrying my work clothes so I have something to wear once I get to work.

(For some reason, my fellow employees object to my wearing my stinky bicycling clothes all day long at the office.)

I could purchase a bike rack from the bike shop, but that requires money.  (And if I had money, I'd probably get my car fixed so I didn't have to rely on my bike so much.)

Instead, I took this old backpack that the kids weren't using anymore and filled it up with all my clothes and then figured out a way to attach it to the handlebars.

First, I wrap the side straps around the handlebars.

Then I wrap the top strap around the front reflector.

Then I knot the side straps around the handlebars.

Then I push it down to set it in place so it won't shift to one side or the other.


A note: My work shoes must be packed properly so that there is one on each side of the backpack, inside.  As the stiffest parts of my outfit, it is important that they rest on either side of the bike frame so that the backpack maintains its central position on the bike; otherwise, if it falls to one side or the other, it is heavy enough to throw me off-balance.

I'm not sure how ridiculous it looks to the passers-by, but it gets the job done.  Early American Geek Bike Rider.  Complete with ancient styrofoam helmet.

The mesh for the helmet fell off a long time ago.  The guys at work tell me it needs the mesh so that it if it should hit the ground, all the broken little pieces will stay together and thus continue to protect my head.  They're probably right.  But I keep forgetting to get a new helmet when at the store.  Usually my mind is on more important matters, like finding out if ice cream is on sale, or trying to remember where I put the list.   Was it in this pocket, or that one?

(Mostly I get in trouble for purchasing things which were not on the list.)

==

The ride to work is always eventful.  People have forgotten how to deal with bikes, especially in a commercial area.  They have forgotten that bikes have the right-of-way in certain instances.  They have forgotten that it is very dangerous to ride bikes on the road when there is very little or no shoulder, especially when there are tractor trailer rigs flying up and down the road.  They have forgotten that sometimes bike riders have to ride on the sidewalk (if there is one) to avoid being shoved off the road by the bursts of wind from passing trucks.

Then there's those road construction crews who decide that the sidewalk is a good place to park their construction equipment -- as if no one ever uses the sidewalk.

Speaking of which, it would be far easier to get to work if the street on which my work is located actually had a sidewalk.  But it doesn't.  

As you can see from the illustration above (I hope), there are sidewalks (green) along the first two roads I travel; but the third road, the road on which my work is located, does not have a sidewalk.  Which is stupid.  Considering that it is in an industrial area, heavily travelled by tractor-trailer rigs and commercial vans all all kinds of monstrous vehicles.  There is no room for a bike to share the road with those kinds of vehicles.


So I have to ride past the road on which my work is located (via the red lines), cross the busy road at a point where there is a parking lot on the other side, then cruise through several adjoining parking lots -- away from the main road -- to my work building.


It is not the best solution, but it works for now.


All told, it's about five miles.  Thirty minutes or so.  Just enough to get me warmed up for work.  (And hot and sweaty.  Did I mention there are no showers in my building?  Oh, well, at least it cuts down on the cubicle traffic.)


I find it quite exhilarating.

The Power of Prayer

Sometimes a statement is made or an event occurs which triggers an echo in my brain that just won't go away; days later, it is still bouncing around inside my head, causing all sorts of psychic (or psychotic) side effects which generally lead either to madness or a blog post, whichever comes first.

In this case, it was a statement made at church which sparked a line of thinking in my brain.

A statement about the Power of Prayer.

In general, among Christians one expects to find a belief in the power of prayer, but there is an interesting diversity in the nature of that belief.  For some, prayer is a way of asking God to intervene in our lives; for others, it is a way to ask God to align our lives with His will.

When the minister stood before the congregation on Sunday morning and pointed out the little girl who had been undergoing chemotherapy and radiation, and said that her presence there was evidence of the Power of Prayer, I felt a sudden and irrational rush of anger.

Was that really what we'd been praying for?

When her parents first discovered the nature of her illness, did they pray that she would undergo delicate surgeries to remove the tumors from her brain, and then undergo painful and nauseating treatments for several months in order to eradicate the disease?  Or did they beg God to suddenly and miraculously remove it completely?

When they prayed, did they ask that God "guide the hands of the doctors" who would be peeling back her skin and cutting through her skull and inserting sharp instruments to dig out the malfunctioning cells in order to reduce the damage to a minimum - or did they ask him to just make it disappear so that their precious little girl wouldn't have to endure the pain and misery?

And what about all those little girls (and boys) who weren't there - the ones who had died?

In that company of congregants on that Sunday, there were doubtless others who had prayed for their own cancer-stricken loved ones and received very different answers.  There were those who had prayed and received a "miracle", only to find out later that the cancer had returned, and this time, for keeps. There were those who had spent hours on their knees in prayer, to no avail.  Because God said No and their child died.

Were their prayers somehow not as good as others?

Can we point to the body of their loved one in the coffin and claim that, too, as evidence of the Power of Prayer?

Can we point to the broken body trapped in the wreckage of the car and claim that as evidence of the Power of Prayer when the parents were praying so fervently for the safety of their teen-aged child?

Can we point to the pile of burning debris that was once an airplane and claim that as evidence of the Power of Prayer, knowing that only hours ago, some families were gathered at the airport and praying for each other's safety?

There is a scene in the 1997 movie, "I Am Legend", which continues to reverberate in my brain, all these years later.  The family of the protaganist is preparing to leave New York due to the plague.  The city is about to be barricaded so that no one will be able to leave.  The father (Will Smith), who must stay to find a cure for the disease, prays with his wife and children before they are about to fly off in the helicopter.  "God, keep my family safe," he says.  It is a tearful, emotional, spiritual moment.  The wife and children get in the helicopter and it lifts off.  They are headed to safety.  And then, just as it is about to clear the area, another helicopter slams into it, killing everyone.  The father stands and watches his family die right before his eyes, only moments after begging the Lord of the Universe to Keep Them Safe.

The answer to his fervent prayer is an immediate and forceful "No".

For the purpose of that narrative, it was necessary to set up a spiritual crisis for the character (which, incidentally, I don't think was ever resolved). 

What about our own narrative?

Every day, something happens in the world that creates a spiritual crisis for Christians.

Floods, famines, hurricanes, tornadoes, aircraft accidents, automobile wrecks, murders.  Disease.  Cancer. 

We live in a fallen world, and good people suffer and die every day.  People who pray.  And people who are being prayed for.

So what are we thinking when we pray?  And what do we expect for an answer?  And how do we respond when we don't get the answer we want?  Or if, instead, we get the exact opposite?

The little children I teach every Sunday know that God is no Santa Claus.  They know that he doesn't answer each of their prayers the way they'd like.  They didn't get the toy they wanted; the bullies on the playground are still mean; Mommy and Daddy still won't let them have a puppy; or, worse, Mommy and Daddy are still divorced. 

So when the minister shouted out to the congregation to take a look at the bald, emaciated little girl with the huge scar on her head (and the family with near-infinite medical bills) as evidence of the Power of Prayer, I wanted to jump up and shout, What about all the others?  What about all the people we prayed for who died?  What about all the families that are still broken, whose children have been wearing out their knees trying to get God to put things back together?  What do you say to them about the Power of Prayer?

Of course, I didn't jump up.  I didn't shout.  But I certainly thought loudly in my head.

Where is the miracle in a process which, when properly applied, produces expected results?  Is it a miracle that my car engine runs when I put gasoline in the tank and apply a spark in the cylinder?  Is it a miracle that an airplane flies when the wing pushes through the air with sufficient velocity to generate lift?  Is it a miracle that cancerous cells die off when bombarded with radiation and toxic chemicals?

Perhaps it would've been more appropriate for the minister to point to the child and say, Thank God it was His will that she live.  Or, Thank God that, this time, our desires lined up with His.  Now we only have to wonder, Why did He allow her to live? What is her purpose here on earth?

Years ago, I read a book that defined prayer as a mechanism not for turning God to our will, but for turning ourselves to His.  That is, our job is not to try to convince God to do what we want; our job is to accept the things that happen (specifically the ones over which we have no control) and try to discern how God wants us to respond.  The author's point was to show that we, above all others, should be showing compassion and love to the hurting, and bring hope to the hopeless by reminding them that this world is not the end, but merely a portal to the beginning. And so we should not worry about the prayers which go unanswered, or those for which the answer is a resounding "No".

Yet Mark 11:24 says: "Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours."  And Matthew 21:22 says: "If you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer."

My question to you is - what is your view on prayer?  What kinds of things do you pray about?  What limits do you put on your expectations?  How do you deal with prayers that are unanswered or outright rejected?  What do you teach your children about prayer? 

And what does it mean to you to "wrestle in prayer" with God?