He came riding towards me

amplified music for entertainment

eliminating the need for a bell

to remind me I shouldn’t linger in the bike path

which I felt was too subtly marked

for the occasional tourist strolling in subdued awe

of unfamiliar yet unremarkable surroundings.

Slouched forward, his right hand held a mobile phone

which probably showed a map tracking his progress

or maybe a text message from someone important.

I was reminded of a story my father told me

riding his bike through the rubble of post-war Normandy

on the long trek from Le Havre to Cite Montgeon

past the broken facades that once held the hopes of families

now refugees at the army chapel he would serve

with coffee and solace, in no small turn

reassured by the knowledge that in everything,

in the dark midst of despair

God is present

working for the good of those in need

through many like my father, called to His purpose.

It was just a few years earlier

he was riding his bike through open prairies

one glorious autumn day

singing a hymn at the top of his lungs

thanking God for the Earth so bright

so full of splendor and joy

with no one to hear him

this being rural Saskatchewan

and while I know this is an embellishment

I see him riding with his arms outstretched

looking up with joy to embrace the endless sky

like Meg Ryan in City of Angels

but without closing his eyes.

What if my father kept on riding west

or had stayed in Le Havre

instead of returning to southern Ontario

to marry the young woman who would become

beloved mother to me and my three siblings

instead meeting a farmer’s daughter

or finding his calling among the Cree?

I certainly wouldn’t be here in Lisbon

scurrying out of the way of bikes

or of anything else for that matter

such divine coincidences that result

- among a few other things -

in a statistical improbability like me

grateful always to be the son of someone

who looks up to beauty and light.