Restoration and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

I've got a 1971 350 Honda motorcycle. It's in relatively decent shape, until I look at the fully restored ones online. Then, not so much. Would I like to restore it? Yes. Wait. No -- I'd like it to be restored.

Mine doesn't look like this...

I don't want to do the restoration. To restore it means tearing it apart. Removing dents. Repainting. Getting intimate with grease that predates my birth and dealing with gunk that remembers Nixon. I'm learning that if one owns a vintage bike, one either needs the skills to fix said bike, or enough money for someone else to do it. I have neither. So it runs, usually. And I smell like gasoline after I ride it.

I got mad at my 6-year old son the other day, madder than the situation warranted. Afterwards, I told my son, "Daddy's sorry." And I meant it. I asked God for forgiveness. And I meant it.

But I stopped there. Confession was easy. Saying 'sorry' is even simpler. But I wasn't restored.

Restoration's expensive. The price is the costly question "why?" Why did I get so mad? And the cost of asking why leads to the tough work of dismantling my heart and finding the broken piece. And the broken piece is a boy not much older than my son Aedan. Wounded by the words and actions of another. And then believing that this broken piece is who he truly is.

But seeing that broken part isn't enough. I need listen as the voice of the Restorer speaks truth into the heart-lie I'm holding. I need to let the hand of the Healer reach in and return that soul-part to its original glory. I need to succomb to the embrace of the Abba Father and, from there, forgive those who wounded me.

I'd like to be restored. But until I'm ready to pay the price of intimacy, I guess I settle for a life that's in relatively decent shape and runs, usually.