When I was a boy growing up on our farm in the 1940s, my prized possession was a secondhand bicycle.

It wasn’t much to look at. The red paint had dulled and chipped, the seat had seen better days, and it had probably belonged to several boys before it found its way to me. But to this farm kid, it represented something wonderful.

Freedom.

There was just one problem.

I couldn’t ride it.

I tried and tried, wobbling across the farmyard, usually ending up flat in the dust before I’d gone more than a few feet. I was determined, but determination isn’t the same thing as balance.

One afternoon my dad came to my aid. He didn’t make a speech or explain the mechanics of riding a bicycle. He simply stood beside me, held the seat, offered a few encouraging words, and said, “Let’s try again.” Then he gave me a gentle push and let go.

This time something clicked.

The bicycle steadied. My feet found the pedals. The front wheel stayed where it was supposed to. And before I knew it, I was riding.

I can still remember the feeling. The warm breeze against my face. The sound of dirt and gravel crunching beneath the tires. The old rutted road stretching out in front of me like an invitation to the rest of the world.

For a few wonderful moments, I forgot everything except the joy of moving forward.

Then an unsettling thought.

I had no idea how to stop.

I looked over my shoulder and shouted, “Dad! I’m riding—but how do I stop?”

He was bent over laughing.

Apparently, in all the excitement of getting me started, neither one of us had thought much about stopping.

So I kept going.

Past the house. Past the chicken coop. Past the place where I probably should have turned.

But the old barn was too big to pass up.

With a loud crunch, the bicycle stopped.

So did I.

After making sure nothing was broken except maybe a little pride, I picked myself up. Before long, I was laughing as hard as my father.

That memory still makes me smile.

I’ve thought about it several times over the years because I suspect many of us spend the first half of life asking one question:

“How do I get started?”

A career. Marriage. Raising children. A business. A ministry. Following some call from God we aren’t quite sure we’re ready for.

We pray for courage and open doors. We ask God for enough faith to take the next step.

And somehow, we get moving.

Then somewhere farther down the road, another question begins to matter.

“How do I stop?”

How do I know when it’s time to rest? When do I let someone else carry the responsibility? When do I release something I’ve held onto for years?

And perhaps the hardest question of all: When do I stop trying to control everything and simply trust God?

Beginning takes courage.

Stopping takes wisdom.

The writer of Ecclesiastes reminds us that “there is a time for every matter under heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). There is a time to begin and a time to finish. A time to hold on and a time to let go.

The Writer was right..

Sometimes I pedal too hard. Other days I need encouragement just to keep going. And now and then, I still forget where the brakes are.

The good news is that my heavenly Father hasn’t stopped being there.

He has been there through the beginnings, the unexpected stops, the detours, and all the seasons in between.

Looking back now, I don’t think that afternoon was only about learning to ride a bicycle.

My dad helped me get started. Then he let go.

Life is like this. First, a gentle push. Then we have to find our own balance. We have to discover what was down the road. And eventually, we have to learn how to stop.

I suppose I’m still learning.

And sometimes it takes a barn.

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Psalm 32:8 — “I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go…”

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From a recent Zoom BookClub discussion about The Permission:

Thank you!!!! My friends loved having you there tonight (on Zoom) and were genuinely excited to hear your stories and ask questions about the books. You’re the best!

—Robin’s BookClub

If your BookClub is interested in meeting with the author of The Cain Family Chronicles, contact ward@wardtanneberg.com