Worst Day of My Life

Hello.

Today is the final prompt for the writing challenge!  It took us long enough, but here we are.  I'm curious how it will feel to go back to normal writing after three-ish months of using prompts.

(On a completely unrelated note, I'm coming to the conclusion that I make my coffee far too strong as I am experiencing extreme jitters and a racing heart.  Yipes.  Time to start downing as much water as possible.)

The final prompt is "a vivid memory."  I struggled with deciding on one.  Particularly because I would like to tell you a new one, but after four years, I'm having trouble remembering what I've told you already.  I'm also torn between telling you an old memory versus a new one.  Choosing a newer one seems a little like cheating since it's fresher in my mind.
Many of my older memories are of that dreamlike quality.  You know, where you sometimes wonder if you made it up.  Like the time at Uncle Larry and Aunt Judy's when we were having a family reunion of sorts.  I was about three years old.  I have visions of playing in the yard near a wooden fence, throwing up, lying on the floor in a hallway, and watching Sleeping Beauty. 
Anyway, that would be an example of what this letter is not supposed to be about.
A vivid memory: receiving my first bicycle.
It was my birthday.  Mom walked me down the stairs, obviously excited about whatever was waiting for me in the living room.  We came to the lower landing and saw Dad riding a hot pink and white bicycle around the downstairs.  And I. was. crushed.
I know- I'm a terrible daughter.  There's my dad, a full grown man, riding a hot pink bicycle inside the house with the most gigantic grin on his face.  He was so excited and bursting to give me that gift, and I cried because I was afraid to ride without training wheels.
They eventually talked me into going down to the library parking lot where Dad tried his best to help me learn.  I remember several such outings to the church parking lot and the driveway at The Farm, and feeling the same dread every time the idea was brought up. 
"I don't see what the problem is, Aimee.  Look at me- it's so easy!"
(We don't remember the authenticity of this fact, but doesn't it just look like Katie is totally strutting her stuff back there on her trike?  When we found this photo, she captioned it with the quote she imagined herself taunting me with.)
I am happy to tell you that eventually I learned to love my bike.  I remember many afternoons with Ellyn and Katie, speeding through the neighborhood, flying down huge hills.  We would spend hours going up and down the large, smooth hill that was First Christian Church's parking lot.  I even upgraded to this super cool white bike that had different colored paint splatters all over it.  It was awesome.  That is, until someone stole it off of our front porch.  (Devastation ensued.)
My dad knew that a bicycle would be a means to "freedom" and fun.  He knew if I could just put my trust in him to keep me from falling at first, if I tried to learn, if I gained confidence in my ability, that I would enjoy the benefits of riding a bike.  And I'm sure that somewhere in there was a message that if I did fall, he would be there to help me back up again because he loved me.
I suppose this memory stuck out to me because it's chock full of life lessons that I need to be reminded of today.  Reminders to persevere through struggles, to keep practicing the difficult stuff, to stretch and try new things.  
It's also a reminder that I don't have to do it alone.  I can trust in my Heavenly Father and my loved ones to support me and help me when I stumble.  They are in my corner cheering me on, wanting the best for me.  They are ready with the band-aids just in case, along with a pat on the back and the encouragement to get right back up and try again.
Today I'm so thankful for the bike that I once loathed so much.  I'm thankful that my dad knew best, just as I'm thankful that God knows best in my life today.  And I'm increasingly thankful that they try to help me to see what they see.
Talk to you later.
Aim