It was late March 1961 and the promise of spring seemed as fleeting as the wintry wind that whipped over our hilltop home near Sugar Grove. Earlier that morning, on my way out the door to catch the bus, I stopped and carefully checked the Deeds Dairy calendar on our kitchen wall to confirm it was indeed the first day of spring. I needed no further convincing; the calendar said it was spring and although smatterings of dirty snow huddled in shadowy areas beyond the suns reach still gasping for life, I was undaunted. I had every confidence by the time school was out it would be warm and sunny—it was, after all, spring!
On the bus ride home, I’d carefully planned the activity of that first warm day. I would rescue my old bike from behind the shed and swoop down from our hilltop home peddling like the wind to the furthest reach of my parent’s previously prescribed boundaries, hoping against hope the other kids in the neighborhood might join me in a celebration of warmth and spring. I carefully preplanned what I would wear: last year’s Levi’s (the ones mom had recently ironed knee patches onto), a white tee shirt, my high top PF Fliers and the robin-egg blue nylon windbreaker my older brother had grudgingly passed onto me only last week. There’s just something about the rattle and flap of nylon in the wind that intensifies the thrill of high speed cycling.
Having conserved my energies all day at school, something about which I had become expertly adept, I leapt from the school bus and sprinted across the yard toward the house, anxious to change out of school clothes and into play clothes. I refused to acknowledge the obvious chill in the air, confident I could will it to be warm. Vaulting over crocuses and running slalom through random daffodils, I peeled out of my heavy coat as I ran excited to finally be free of winter’s corduroy.
Clad for spring, I bounded from the back porch step and raced toward the shed to retrieve my bike. I braced against the obvious chill, still refusing to accept the cold. I pressed on reckoning the spring weather to the likes of the first dive into a chilly pool; I believed my startled body would eventually begin to feel warm as it adjusted to the temperature. But when I rounded the corner of the shed, a northwesterly wind caused me to catch my breath and the first glimmer of reason began to overpower my enthusiasm.
The body heat generated as I tugged to free my bike from the winter’s accumulated debris felt good
against the penetrating chill. Dismayed to find both tires hanging limp from their respective rims, I retrieved the tire pump from the pile of tools on the workbench and began see-sawing the pump, confident the tires would rise to the occasion. But my efforts were rewarded with zero result. It seemed, as dad would later quip, “The tubes had become religious—they were holey.”
I never actually knew what the temperature was that frigid spring day, but I do know it quickly got the best of me. My boyhood vision of peddling with reckless abandon past the vivid green of renewing fields and the hope of feeling the warmth of the pre-summer sun on my face caused me to overlook the one important detail—it was still freezing cold. Sure, the grass was greening and the crocuses were crocusing, but to my utter dismay, it seemed everyone got the message but the thermometer!
I’m often asked if the stories I write are true. The answer is yes—in as much as I can remember. But why at age eleven, would something that happened over fifty years ago stand out in my memory in such vivid detail? I believe it was the utter disappointment. I’d devised a plan with no regard for the inevitable variables of life…like weather. As I’ve aged, I’m slowly learning to hold my man-made plans more loosely while looking to God for confirmation.
The Bible tells us in Proverbs 19:21, “People may plan all kinds of things, but the LORD’s will is going to be done.”
My prayer for us this spring is that each day we place our hopes and plans in the hands of God Almighty who raised Jesus from the grave. Happy Easter! RG
Read Ron’s column, Simple Faith, each Saturday on the Faith Page (page 3) of the Lancaster Eagle Gazette, or visit www.lancastereaglegazette.com.