Headwinds and Grace
When the Wind Won’t Quit, Grace Does the Pushing
Every cyclist knows the feeling. You set out expecting a nice, steady ride—the kind where the tires hum, the sun cooperates, and the wind minds its own business. And then it happens: the headwind.
It’s invisible but relentless, a force of nature with a personal grudge. It hits your chest, fills your helmet with noise, and makes every pedal stroke feel like a test of faith. You shift to the lowest gear, tuck down, and mutter a prayer—or, if you’re honest, a few other words not found in Scripture.
And the worst part? You tell yourself that once you turn around, it’ll become a tailwind. But no—somehow it’s still in your face. I’ve had rides where I was convinced Texas had suspended the laws of physics.
Life has those headwinds too. They don’t knock you over like a crash or startle you like a pothole. They just wear you down, mile after mile. They show up as the quiet resistance that makes everything harder than it should be:
- The health issue that lingers longer than expected.
- The work that takes more out of you than it gives back.
- The grief that refuses to stay in the past.
- The waiting—on healing, direction, clarity—that seems to stretch on forever.
Headwinds don’t announce themselves. They just press in. You keep pedaling, but progress feels slow. Some days, grace feels as far away as the next mile marker.
Here’s the strange thing about headwinds: they build strength even when you can’t feel it happening. You may not see your speed on the bike computer, but endurance is quietly forming underneath the strain.
The same is true in life. You can’t always measure spiritual muscle when you’re pushing against resistance, but that’s where it grows. Strength isn’t built on smooth roads—it’s forged in the unseen miles where you just keep showing up.
Grace doesn’t always calm the wind. Sometimes, grace is what leans into it with you.
I’ve had more than a few rides where the wind seemed determined to prove a point. You know the kind—your heart rate’s high, your speed’s low, and your pride’s somewhere in the ditch. You start calculating whether it’s worth just turning around and calling it “training for character.”
But here’s what I’ve noticed: the harder the wind blows, the quieter I get. There’s no small talk in a headwind. You just breathe, push, and listen—to your body, to your thoughts, to whatever’s left when everything else gets stripped away. That silence has a way of teaching you something you’d never hear otherwise.
Headwinds teach humility. They remind you that no matter how strong or experienced you are, you don’t control everything. You can have the best gear, the perfect route, the right attitude—and still face resistance.
And yet, here’s what I’ve learned: the presence of resistance doesn’t mean the absence of grace. Sometimes the two show up together. Grace isn’t the tailwind that makes everything easy; it’s the quiet presence that keeps you moving when you want to stop.
I’ve come to believe that headwinds are their own kind of
Unlikely Altar. They test you, humble you, and eventually teach you what’s inside you. They remind you that speed isn’t the point—faithfulness is.
When the ride’s over, you realize that even into the wind, you made progress. You might not have gone fast, but you didn’t quit.
That’s grace, too.
Because sometimes the holiest moments aren’t when everything lines up perfectly—they’re when the wind is howling, your legs are tired, and something deep inside whispers, “Keep pedaling.”
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
There’s a sound every cyclist knows — the click of clipping in. For me, it’s one of the most satisfying sounds in the world. That tiny, metallic click says, You’re connected. You’re ready. Let’s ride. It’s also the sound I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear again after my crash. A patch of slush, one bad angle, and an ankle full of hardware later, I found myself grounded for months — and eventually years — before I was able to really ride again. Add Sjögren’s Disease into the mix, and the idea of climbing back on the bike sometimes felt more like foolish nostalgia than wisdom. But grace has a way of whispering, Try again. And so, I did. The first time I clipped in again, I smiled. Not because it was easy — it wasn’t. But because I realized the road still had more to teach me. There’s something holy about motion — even slow, hesitant motion. About wind on your face and breath in your lungs. About knowing the ride won’t be perfect but pedaling anyway. Because the truth is, life rarely gives you tailwinds. Most days, it’s a mix of potholes and headwinds and st retches of rough pavement that test more than your legs. But grace doesn’t wait for the perfect road. Grace rides with you — through the wobble, the pain, the wind, and the weariness. What does that really mean? It means grace is the quiet companion drafting just behind you — not pushing harder, but keeping you from quitting. Grace isn’t the coach yelling from the sidelines; it’s the presence that matches your cadence, breath for breath, mile for mile. Grace doesn’t flatten the hills or calm the wind. It rides beside you through them. It steadies your shaking hands when you hit rough pavement. It gives you the courage to unclip when you need to stop — and the strength to clip back in when you’re ready to move again. Grace shows up in the quietest ways — a moment of laughter in the middle of exhaustion, a friend who calls at the right time, a peace that comes out of nowhere when you thought you were done. Sometimes it’s not even words. It’s breath. It’s presence. It’s that deep-down knowing that you’re not riding alone, even when no one else is on the road. And every now and then, grace even lets you coast. The road has become an Unlikely Altar for me — the place where faith and fatigue meet, where sweat becomes prayer, and where I remember that grace doesn’t mean ease. It means presence. When I ride now, I don’t measure distance or speed the way I used to. I measure gratitude — for the ability to move, to breathe, to clip in one more time. Maybe that’s the quiet gift of age, of injury, of illness — you learn that the point was never perfection, but participation. You get back on the bike not because the road is smooth, but because the ride itself is sacred. So if you find yourself staring at a road that looks long, uneven, or uphill, take a breath. Clip in. Start pedaling. Grace doesn’t clear the path. It keeps you company on the ride. You’re never alone on the ride.
If potholes jar you and gravel unnerves you, crashes just flat-out take you down. Every cyclist knows that sinking feeling: one second you’re upright, the next you’re tangled in a mess of handlebars, chain grease, and pride. Sometimes you get up with nothing worse than road rash. Other times, you limp away with scars that last a lifetime. I know this one by heart. A few winters ago, the Sunday after the Houston big freeze, I was riding the Braes Bayou Trail planning to ride 60 miles before meeting friends for lunch. The pavement looked clear enough, but an innocent-looking patch of slush sent my wheels out from under me. I unclipped but for some reason did it awkwardly, and in a blink my ankle snapped. Just like that, I went from riding free to riding in an ambulance. The 60 miles became 30 miles and the lunch never happened. The aftermath wasn’t pretty. A bunch of screws and plates held my ankle together for a while. My X-rays looked like something from a Home Depot catalog. Eventually, the hardware had to come out because it caused more trouble than it solved. I still keep the X-ray pictures ( the graphics are of my right ankle that was broken ). They’re not pretty, but they preach. Proof that I was broken. Proof that I healed. Proof that sometimes resurrection comes with plates and screws. Today, I carry the memories more than the metal—reminders of both the fragility of the human body and the stubbornness of the human spirit. Life hands us crashes too. The divorce you never saw coming. The diagnosis that stops you in your tracks. The job loss that pulls the rug out from under you. The phone call in the middle of the night that changes everything. Unlike potholes or gravel, these aren’t moments you just “ride through.” They take you down. They hurt. They leave scars. And sometimes they leave you wondering if you’ll ever get back up. Here’s the thing about scars: they don’t lie. They’re honest in a way that words sometimes aren’t. A scar is proof that something hurt you, but it’s also proof that the hurt didn’t win. It tells the whole story—pain and healing, breaking and mending, falling and rising again. Scars are strange that way. They mark the places of our deepest weakness, and at the same time they become signs of our resilience. They whisper both, “This is where you were broken,” and, “This is where you got back up.” My orthopedic surgeon was proud that he’d done the surgeries on my ankle without leaving any visible scars. I told him, half-joking, that I kind of wanted the scars—for the stories, of course. He grinned and said, “Well, I could always draw one on for you.” Without missing a beat, he added, “Then you can just get a tattoo artist to make it permanent.” For a split second, I almost agreed. I can laugh about it now, but the point still stands: scars—real or imagined—carry meaning. They’re proof that you’ve been down, but also proof you got back up. And isn’t that what resurrection really is? Not pretending the crash never happened, but living as proof that it didn’t get the last word. The first ride back after my ankle healed was equal parts joy and terror. My mind kept replaying the fall, reminding me how fragile the body—and confidence—can be. Every turn of the pedal felt risky. Every shadow on the trail looked like another slush patch. But slowly, something shifted. I felt the rhythm again. The tires began to hum. The fear started to fade, replaced by the familiar freedom of the ride. That’s resurrection. Not everything going back to “the way it was,” but the courage to try again after you’ve been broken. Resurrection is about scars that don’t disappear but no longer define you. It’s about grace that meets you in the getting back up. Cyclists trade crash stories the way kids trade baseball cards. Each one carries a mix of pain, pride, and proof of survival. And maybe that’s part of the healing too—learning to laugh at what once felt impossible. I still tell mine with a grin: the slush patch, the screws, the hardware catalog X-rays, and yes—even the surgeon who offered to draw me a scar. Sometimes laughter is its own kind of resurrection. For me, even the crash became an Unlikely Altar. It’s where I was reminded of how breakable we all are—and how much strength we can find in the getting back up. It’s where I learned that scars are more than reminders of pain; they are testimonies of healing. Life’s crashes will come. They’ll hurt. They’ll mark us. But they don’t have the last word. Sometimes they become the very place where resurrection breaks through, where grace shows up, and where we discover that even broken bones—and broken lives—can be made strong again.
Today is World Communion Sunday. Which means that somewhere, in every time zone and in every language you can imagine, bread is being broken and a cup is being shared. In a cathedral, a golden chalice gleams in the candlelight. In a village, a clay jug is passed under a mango tree. Somewhere it’s pita, somewhere it’s tortilla, somewhere it’s store-brand sandwich bread stacked on a plate from Dollar General. Somewhere it’s juice poured from a crystal cruet; somewhere else, it’s grape Kool-Aid in a plastic cup. And in every place, somehow, grace shows up. That’s the beauty of this day. We don’t all look the same, worship the same, or sing the same. But somehow, across all that difference, we are one table. And even though I won’t be sitting in a pew today, this day still matters to me. Because communion has never only belonged to the altar rail. It shows up wherever bread is broken and barriers are broken down. In casseroles left on a grieving neighbor’s porch, when words aren’t enough but lasagna might be. In coffee shared with someone you thought you’d never forgive. In the chips and salsa that disappear between two friends who haven’t spoken in years, laughter somehow louder than the silence that came before. In a hospital room where a nurse breaks a graham cracker in half and shares it with a patient who hasn’t eaten in days. At a kitchen table, where grace is passed not with liturgy but with a smile, a story, and another helping. Communion is always more than bread and cup. Always more than a line down the aisle. Always more than church on a calendar day. Communion isn’t just vertical, between me and God. It’s horizontal too. It’s what binds us to one another, even in our doubts, our baggage, and our brokenness. It’s why Paul called us “one body.” One loaf. One world. I think that’s what I need to remember in this season: God’s table stretches wider than the walls of any church. Wide enough for my stubbornness, my questions, my wandering. Wide enough for saints and skeptics, doubters and disciples, those who are sure and those who are just hanging on. And communion always points forward. It’s never just about what’s on the table right now—it’s a foretaste of the feast to come. That banquet where nobody leaves hungry, nobody gets left out, and maybe Jesus even does the dishes. That vision gives me hope. A messy, beautiful, stubborn hope. Because let’s be honest: communion has always been messy. There are crumbs on the carpet and fingerprints on the chalice. There are juice stains on white linens and laughter in the line. But that’s exactly what makes it real. Grace isn’t polished; it’s passed hand to hand, smudged with fingerprints, and still holy. That’s what makes it real. So today, even without a pew, I’ll watch for the Unlikely Altars . I’ll look for them in kitchens and coffee shops, hospital rooms and sidewalks, backyard barbecues and breakrooms. Anywhere bread is broken and barriers are broken down. Anywhere grace slips in through the cracks of ordinary life. Because communion is always more than one table. It’s God’s table, stretching as wide as the world. And somehow—by some mystery greater than I can explain—we all fit. The crumbs, the spills, the stubborn questions? They’re not proof we’ve failed. They’re proof that grace has come near. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the communion I need most right now. Maybe it’s the communion many of us need most right now. Maybe that is the true meaning of communion. Maybe that is what the bread and juice are really saying: You belong at the table, even when you doubt. You are part of the feast, even when you feel empty. Grace will m eet you here, crumbs and all.