I donated K’s first bike today. It was a Hello Kitty bike–I had to drive to Temecula to get it, it was so popular. No wonder, since it had streamers on the handlebars and a baby seat on the back. She learned to ride without training wheels on that bike. I took it from the car, picturing that beautiful little thing riding furiously, a wide-as-a-rainbow grin stretched upon her face. My eyes caught the little purple label still attached–one of her baby labels, repurposed for protection on preschool bike day. She was a baby, then a preschooler with a baby-seat-sporting training bike, and now she has outgrown it all, and it’s going into a bin with our George Foreman grill, the biker-girls bike seat, and a bag of old clothes.
As much as I try to understand and appreciate seasonality, my heart still aches as the seasons shift. I love that she’s growing, reading, riding her brother’s old bike. I love that she calls me her buddy now, that she has become my cooking companion. But even Jesus wept (John 11:35) at this world, at the impossible gap between the temporal nature of earth and the eternity for which we were meant. Oh yes, every one of those aches makes me remember that we are not meant for this world, with its rapid passing of time. I could just as easily pine for any of those discarded items, they are tied with memories of time past.
Instead, I think about that verse, the shortest verse in the bible, and the power within it. We can be sad, too, even as Jesus was sad. We can mourn those losses. And then we can remember what they point us to, and praise Jesus that someday, there will be no more letting go.