When I was growing up, I had this awesome teal and white bike. It had a cute little puppy on it, and white handle bars with streamers. It even had white tires, although you wouldn’t have known that from just looking at it, because I rode it over lots of dirt since we lived in a developing neighborhood. I loved that bike because I learned to ride without training wheels on it. But the Christmas I was 6, I was outgrowing it.
At that time, there was a family in our church who had a little girl. Her parents were going through a very hard time, and everyone knew that Christmas wouldn’t be very happy for them. They didn’t have much money, so some families in the church got together and decided to help them. The girl was younger than I was, and my nearly-too-small bike would soon be just her size.
I could see where the conversation was going when my Dad asked me how I’d feel about giving my bike to the little girl. I wish I could say that I was a cheerful giver, but at that point, I put up a screaming fight for my bike. I don’t really remember all the details, but ultimately, the little girl got my bike, and I wasn’t too happy about it. (I'm sure my parents had envisioned the delivery of all the gifts to be a life-changing experience for me, but as it was, I recall crying in the car all the way home. I had a lot to learn about cheerful giving . . . but in my defense, the little girl wasn't even there to receive the bike, and her dad was rather gruff about it all.)
When I woke up on Christmas morning and saw a new bike parked next to the tree that was purple, pink, and white and a little big so I’d grow into it, I still wanted my old bike back. I couldn’t even get excited about the new one because I was a little concerned about how my beloved old bike was being treated by the poor little girl across town.
I’ve forgotten about the teal-and-white puppy bike since then, but I feel like I’ve torn the scab off an old wound by revisiting this story. My dad knew a new bike would be waiting for me on Christmas morning. He could have ruined the surprise and said, “Emily, I’m getting you a new bike; would you mind if we give your old one to someone who could really use it?” And I probably would have been so keyed in on the idea of a new bike that I wouldn’t have cared what they’d done with the old one. But he wanted to give me the choice of sharing with those in need, to let me in on the pleasure of giving with nothing expected in return. And I missed out that time.
I think God gives us similar options sometimes. He has something even better in store, but leaves it up to us to get rid of the old thing first. I don’t know about you, but I tend to cling to the old because it’s familiar. I know how it works, even though parts of it may be broken. (I’m not talking just about bikes any more. Relationships, appliances, clothes . . . I guess you could say I’m not big on change.) And then God sometimes tears things out of my hands (or allows them to be taken from me), and I’m left with the odd feeling that this would have been a whole lot easier had I done it His way. Why is it so hard to part with things that we think are ours?
The year 2009 is drawing to a close. Is there anything God is calling you to lay down? To pass on? To unload? If so, do it. Let it go. Don’t grip it tighter, worry over what will happen to it, or rehash the good ol’ days relentlessly.
In life and in ministry, when you’re asked to give something up, don’t cling to it or worry about how the next “owner” is taking care of it. It’s his or hers now, and that’s between him or her and God. Be faithful with what God’s given you—no matter what He wants you to do with it.
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