A FATHERS FORGIVENESS

A FATHER’S FORGIVENESS

Romans 5:20

20 Moreover the law entered, that the offence might abound. But where sin abounded, grace did much more abound:

When I was a boy, my dad bought me a Trail 70 mini bike. It wasn’t brand new, but it was new to me, and I was thrilled. That little bike was everything a boy could want: Freedom, adventure, and the sound of a tiny engine rumbling beneath me.

There was only one rule. Do not ride it unless your mom or I are home.

Simple, Clear, Firm.

And I understood it. At least, I thought I did.

But one afternoon after school, the field next to our house  was calling my name. The dirt was freshly plowed, the sun was shining, and that little Blue mini bike sat in the barn like it was daring me to come ride.

One time won’t hurt, I told myself. Just a quick spin. No one will ever know.

I wheeled it out, fired it up, and took off across the field. The tires cut through the dirt, the engine buzzed under me, and I felt completely free. Just me, the bike and the open field. I was on top of the world, for about five minutes.

Then, all at once, I hit a rut.

The front wheel dipped, the back end flipped, and I flew off the seat. I landed with a thud in the dirt, but my eyes were locked on the mini bike. It was lying on its side, and smoke was rising from the engine. In moments, flames sparked.

Panic flooded my mind. I scrambled to my feet and tried to smother the fire with the dirt. Finally, I got it out. The bike was scorched, the paint bubbled and blackened in spots. My heart sank.

I dragged it back into the barn and did what any boy would do, I tried to hide it. Parked it in the darkest corner, hoping maybe it would stay out of sight long enough for me to figure something out.

A couple of days passed. Guilt hung over me like a heavy fog. I kept waiting for the moment when my dad would bring it up. But nothing came.

Until one afternoon, I saw him out the window, walking toward the barn.

Fear once again overwhelmed me.

He was pulling the mini bike out, examining the damage. I rushed outside, words tumbling in my head, trying to explain, trying to get ahead of the inevitable punishment. But when I got there, he didn’t say a word.

He looked at the scorched frame, then at me.

And that look of disappointment, quiet and deep, cut sharper than anything he could’ve said.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t scold me. He just pushed the mini bike back into the barn and walked away.

That silence was deafening. It stretched into days, then a couple of weeks.

No mention of the mini bike. No talk about what I had done. And honestly, that was the worst part. Not the wrecked mini bike. Not even the fear of getting in trouble. It was knowing I had broken the trust of someone who loved me. That I had disobeyed, and in doing so, hurt the relationship with my dad.

Then, one Saturday morning, something unexpected happened.

I looked out and saw my dad loading the damaged mini bike into the back of his truck. He drove off without saying a word.

A few hours later, I heard the truck returning. I stepped outside, unsure of what was coming. And there in the back of the truck was another Trail 70. Still used. Still not perfect. But it was new to me.

He unloaded it, and I stood quietly beside the truck, unsure of what was actually happening.

Then he looked at me with the same serious eyes and said just one thing:

“Do not ever ride this without me or your mom being here.”

With a lump in my throat and a quiver in my voice, I answered, “Yes sir.”

That moment has stayed with me all my life.

It taught me the real weight of disobedience, not because I got caught, not because of the consequences, but because it impacted the relationship with someone I loved and respected. I never wanted to see that look in my dad’s eyes again. And I never rode that mini bike again without one of my parents there. Not out of fear, but out a new found desire to honor my Father.

More than that, it taught me something about forgiveness.

My dad didn’t owe me anything. He could’ve taken the bike away, or refused to replace it. But instead, he showed me Grace and Forgiveness. He didn’t make a show of it. He didn’t lecture me. He simply gave me another chance.

That’s the kind of love our heavenly Father shows us.

God knows us. He knows we’ll disobey, break trust and often take matters into our own hands. Yet, His response is often like my dad’s, disappointment, yes, but followed by mercy, Restoration, and a new beginning.

There’s a verse in Romans 2 that says, “God’s goodness is meant to lead us to repentance.” That day, my dad’s kindness broke me in a way that punishment never could. It didn’t just make me sorry, It changed me. I didn’t just want to do better, I wanted to be better.

I didn’t obey out of fear anymore, but out of love and respect.

Forgiveness is a powerful Blessing. It rebuilds what was broken. It restores trust. And it reminds us that even when we fall short, we’re never beyond the reach of Grace.