My two girls and I were coming back home from church around noon today. I noticed the traffic slowing a little and then saw some flashing lights - uh, oh; I assumed an accident. But to my surprise, we kept moving, inching, creeping. And then I saw them. Hundreds of single headlights, bookended by black soled boots. And then I heard them. Hundreds of wwhhhaaahhhh - Harleys, Hondas, Suzukis, and even a Victory. We had just turned onto the street that was an approved route for the Toys for Tots benefit ride. Traffic then stopped completely and we sat and watched at least 500 cyclists zoom by. We hit the button and the windows came down. "Settle in, girls; there's a few motorcycles gonna pass."
And we watched rider after rider after riders bike by with stuffed animals or boxes wrapped in Christmas paper strapped to windshields or backrests. You just have to smile when everything about the particular rider is black, from leathers to gas tank paint, and then there's Elmo, glistening in his redness, strapped to the front. I like these riders. There's always been an attraction for me to the motorcycle culture. Something about it just screams, "Freedom!" From silver-flecked goatees to proud mamas perched on the back, everyone I saw today was smiling, happy to be riding and giving to a worthy cause. But they were doing it on their terms.
I suddenly noticed that we were stopped directly across from a church parking lot. And evidently church had just let out, but no one could exit the lot due to the stream of bikes motoring by. Those folks were backed up all the way back to the building, which sits a distance off the road. I wondered if they were having Christ-like thoughts as these angels rode by? Or were they put-out because they couldn't get out and get to wherever? Two grade school girls suddenly emerged from one of the stuck-in-the-lot-church-vehicles; they were dressed in white shoes with laced socks and dresses to complete the ensemble. But evidently, the lure of black and the sound of the road were too much for these young souls. They hopped out and began waving and shouting at the riders; the riders began honking back. I'd like to think that if a bike had stopped for a moment that the young girls would've shot off and hopped on and taken off, yelling back to momma "it's for a good cause," while kicking off their laced socks and letting the wind blow through their evangelical toes. And maybe there were others in those SUVs and Subaru wagons who were having thoughts of envy, longing to strap their legs round those engines and let it ride. I know I was.
I was sitting in a minivan, wearing a button-down shirt, telling the girls to "stay buckled up" while simultaneously wishing I was in line with the angels, balancing a hawg with Tigger doing a bouncy, trouncy, fun, fun, fun, fun, fun on my back. We sat still for almost fifteen minutes, watching the parade and dreaming, picking out the bikes we'd have if we could and discussing our favorite gas tank colors. I wasn't sure why I ended up at church this morning. Probably due to habit. Maybe something will emerge later in the week, but by the end of the service, I was wishing I hadn't gone. The drive home was taking on one of those regretful commutes; I was a more than a quart low on hope. And then I saw them. And heard them. Redemption drew nigh as half a thousand doo-ragged brothers and sisters rode by preaching freedom and displaying generosity. Forgive us, Lord, for we know not why we do what we do. Thank you for your messengers, astride chrome and flames, telling us to repent for the Kingdom is near. Oh, Lord, I want to be in that number...
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