Grandma and I leaned forward a bit in our overstuffed chairs trying to catch the Kansas wind flowing through the open window. The curtains moved with the breeze. The air felt good in the stifling hot house that lacked air conditioning. There was a window air unit but Grandpa refused to turn it on unless the thermometer outside was closing in on 100 degrees. We weren’t quite there yet.

One of the Eythcheson boys drove by the house on his minibike revving the engine as he passed. I thought about how good it must feel to ride down the road with the rushing air cooling your body. With that thought, I blurted out, “Grandma, I want a minibike.”

“Oh, Dienna. No, no, no. You can’t have a minibike.” Her concern and fear for her thirteen-year-old granddaughter filled the air.

“Why not?”

“Dienna, if you get a minibike, then you will end up with a motorcycle. And if you ride a motorcycle, you will end up in a gang.”

This was becoming my grandma’s version of If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.

“And if you end up in a gang, you will start doing drugs. Then you will become a drug addict. No, you cannot get a minibike.”

This explained so much about their prayer and concern for the Eytcheson boys. The younger boys owned minibikes and the older boys had graduated to motorcycles. Not to mention the way they lit fireworks in the middle of the night and played their music way too loud. A deep concern hovered in my grandparent’s prayers for these wild young men across the street.

My grandma looked like she was ready to cry. She already had me in rehab at this point. So, I dropped the subject after reassuring her that it was only a passing thought and I would never get a minibike. Nevertheless, I was absolutely certain that she was old fashioned and unaware and was being entirely too dramatic about the whole idea. But truthfully, I didn’t really want a minibike. I just liked the idea of independence and freedom and mostly my long blonde hair streaming out behind me. I was sure I would look super cool.

Naïve to the world would be a good way to describe Grandma. But also, full of wisdom when it came to the spiritual world. To scripture. To prayer. To following Jesus. When I look back, I realize that Grandma was teaching me something foundational for life. It’s the first step that puts you on the path. That first decision carries more weight and power than we are often willing to admit.

While many first steps are easy to track back, others lead us toward a place we never envisioned we would end up. Shame, guilt and regret can easily be down the path. On the other hand, that first step can also lead us to wholeness, healing and hope. Some first steps are fairly meaningless, just normal life with everyday type decisions. Others carry a heavy weight with them that affect our future and our family.

When I think of first steps in my own life that have led to healing and wholeness, I remember my first step walking through the door of a therapist’s office. Being the first to say I’m sorry. Sending an email to a hurting friend. Stepping toward grace instead of condemnation. All these actions have been powerful first steps in creating space for forgiveness and hope.

While I don’t believe that riding a minibike will lead to becoming addicted to drugs, I do believe our first steps matter. There are times when the Holy Spirit nudges us that this is the wrong direction, when common sense tells us this isn’t right, when our own moral values and beliefs call out to us to step back. And there are times when the Holy Spirit leads us to see we need to take a step in a positive direction, when those we love are encouraging us to do the next right thing, and when the fog clears and we can see the step we should take. Then we gather our courage and make that step believing that the path we are choosing will lead toward wholeness.