"I SHALL CALL HER BESSIE!"

It was early June that her bright orange color and basket back seat caught my eye...

“Wow…this bike is beautiful.” I said, running my hand over the quirky frame. I immediately found myself wondering who would be the proud owner of this eccentric, old-timey bike. It had definitely seen its better days, but it was nothing that a little elbow grease and love couldn’t fix.

The leader of Bike Shop, Joe, walked over. “You like that bike, Amber? Have it. It has been in the shop awhile; we were just going to scrap it.” He looked at me to the bike to me again. “Actually, this is the perfect Amber bike.”

I didn’t know what an “Amber bike” was, but it didn’t matter at that point. All that mattered in that moment was the creeping feeling of attachment latching onto the 1950s style bike. It was going to be mine. I would be able to fix it up with the kids at Bike Shop, a group effort. Years down the road I would ride the bike and remember the summer at South Street and how the bike came to be mine. A smile slowly spread across my face. 

“I SHALL CALL HER BESSIE!” I announced to the kids and volunteers surrounding me.

 “You picked that bike?” the kids stared at me skeptically, gathered around the old, rusted bike.

“Look at this bike! LOOK AT HER! She’s a beaut!” I channeled my inner Vanna White as I attempted to persuade them of Bessie’s beauty. “See this rack thing on the back tire? I can carry books in here! Check it!”

I lifted the rack and lowered it, producing an “Oooo” from my 10 and under crowd. “That’s pretty cool,” one admitted.

“All she needs is a new seat, brakes, and she’ll be good to go!” I stated enthusiastically.

With the help of my little posse, we put Bessie back in the Bike Shop, her temporary home.

  *       *       *

Each Bike Shop I would check to see if Bessie was still there, waiting for the time when I finally had the chance to finish fixing her up. And indeed, every Bike Shop she was there, hanging up in the back corner, untouched by anyone.

You see, Bessie was mine in my mind but there was always the option that a kid would realize the gem that was Bessie and decide that she was the bike that they wanted. If this were to happen I would get over it (as Bike Shop is for the kids), but luckily this had yet to happen. Although there had been a few false alarms where Bessie had been pulled out of the shop, after tinkering around a bit with the brakes, the kids would decide that she wasn’t worth fixing and put her back in the shop.

It remained this way for two months.

Last Wednesday, however, this all changed.

I got out of my car and frolicked to Bike Shop like any other Wednesday evening. As the Shop came into my sight, I scanned to see the kids that were attending and stopped as my sight was quickly caught by a flash of orange. Bessie was out of the Shop in in the hands of a young boy, preteen age. Looking at him, I couldn’t tell the seriousness of his interactions with Bessie—had he chosen her as his bike? As I got closer, however, my heart dropped into my stomach.

There was duct tape with his name on it on Bessie’s frame.

In Bike Shop lingo, this meant that the bike was indeed his and he was committed to working his hours, fixing her up, and taking her home.

On the outside, it was no big deal (I knew that this might happen and I was okay with it), but on the inside, I was a mess of emotions.

My Summer Camp co-leader, Bobby, was standing next to me. “Bobby, I’m about to lose it. I’ve got to get out of here. Man. I am way more attached to that bike than I thought.”

I quickly ran up the stairs to find solitude in the Upper Room.

It was here that I allowed the tears and the cries to break free.

*        *        *

Grief is a very strange emotion. As I have found myself wrapping up these last few weeks at South Street Ministries, there has been a lot of grief. Grief over a summer that has sparked a lifetime of action. Grief over the incredible men and women that I have met this summer who have inspired me with their lives and stories. Grief over the state of the world and the slap of reality that this experience has given me. Grief over pain, and that there is pain. Grief over feeling like going back to school is not where my heart is, yet where I need to be. Grief. Grief. Grief.

As I’ve been navigating these emotions, I’m finding that grief surfaces in the strangest of places.

Grief in the form of an orange bike I randomly named Bessie, an orange bike that somehow became a representation of my summer somewhere deep in my subconscious. An orange bike that was with me at the beginning of this adventure, and didn’t make it with me to the end.

That young preteen boy taking Bessie as his is just one last thing I can’t control. I can’t control that time is passing. I can’t control that the summer is coming to a close. I can’t control that in less than a month I will be back at Bowling Green experiencing culture shock and grief once more, although it will look different than it has in Akron.

Transition is hard. Saying goodbye is hard. This I'm learning continually. 

*        *        * 

As I compose myself and depart from the Upper Room, I approach that preteen boy as he inspects Bessie’s handlebars. “Hey man,” I say, “Is that your bike?”

He looks up at me and nods, engrossed in his work.

“You picked a good one,” I paused, watching him take the bolt from the seat. “Can I tell you a secret? This is my favorite bike in the shop. Good choice, man.”

I walk away before the tears take over once again, leaving behind the orange bike Bessie and a summer of drastic, empowering change.