He came riding toward 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 stories my father told me

biking through the rubble of post-war Normandy

a cold muddy trek from Le Havre to Cité Montgeon

past broken facades holding shattered dreams

to the chapel where he’d serve refugees

offering food and faith, reassured that even there,

In everything, God is at work.

Or earlier, riding across the Saskatchewan prairies

one glorious autumn day

singing a hymn at the top of his lungs

with no one to hear him

thanking God for the Earth so bright.

I can see him riding, arms outstretched

in darkness and in light

looking up to embrace the heavens

like Meg Ryan in City of Angels

but without closing his eyes.

What if my father had kept riding west

or had stayed in Normandy

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 to light.