THE RED WAGON
Some things you carry. Some things carry you.
[The original Radio Flyer wagon, weathered, paint chipped, rust on the wheels, handle still reaching]
I still have it. Weathered. Paint gone in places. Wheels that have logged more miles than they were built for. But the handle is still there. It always was.
The question was never the weight. It was who was holding the handle.
Everyone is pulling something.
The question is what… and for how long.
And whether you’ll ever let go.
DEDICATION
To the Holy Spirit — for getting me this far. And to Jesus — for taking over the handle. I know whose hands are on it now. That changes everything.
To Marty — for staying the course. For being faithful in your love for your Heavenly Father and for me. I never go a day without knowing it.
To you — reading this, and to the friends who take the time to reach out… may this find the place in your life where it belongs.
To my mother — for showing me how to treat a woman, even when you yourself were so mistreated. That lesson stayed. It shaped more than you knew.
“Can two walk together, unless they are agreed?”
— Amos 3:3 (NKJV)
“No one can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one and love the other, or else he will be loyal to the one and despise the other.”
— Matthew 6:24 (NKJV)
THE HOOK
I have been building and assembling things since I was a child.
Started with my crib.
Then my alarm clock.
God knows what else.
My mom used to tell stories of me using my fingernails like screwdrivers.
My fingers like pliers.
Those stories still circulate the family.
When Heath Company sold assembly kits — all the parts, all the instructions —
I was in my element.
My prize piece was a Tuner Amplifier.
Must have taken me three months.
I followed every line of the directions.
Found mistakes in them.
I was what some people call… thorough.
Then the years passed.
And somewhere along the way…
I stopped reading the instructions.
BBQ.
Dog cage.
Bicycle.
You know exactly what I’m talking about.
Don’t tell me you haven’t done it.
Short screw in the long hole.
Long screw in the short one.
Nothing fits.
Everything feels forced.
And because taking it all apart feels like too much work…
you settle.
But settling doesn’t hold forever.
One day the door starts to fall off.
And you know exactly where the missing piece is.
THE STORY
I was about seven years old.
Summers back then were spent at a cabin in the Santa Cruz Mountains.
Boulder Creek.
My parents had it with my grandfather.
Let’s just say that cabin left marks on a seven-year-old
that no child should carry.
My mother came for a weekend visit.
I still remember assuming she knew what was happening.
I was sworn to secrecy.
Her way of caring for me was to take me to a store I loved.
Western Automotive.
Felton, California.
Mounted on the wall was a little red wagon.
Ten dollars.
I’d been saving.
Doing odd jobs for an older woman in the area who needed help.
When we got to the store…
It was twelve dollars.
My mom looked at me.
“What are you going to do?”
I was sad.
But I already knew.
I could earn it in time.
So I accepted it.
It wasn’t coming home with me.
She was proud of how I handled it.
What I didn’t know…
was that she had already bought it.
It was loaded in the car.
On the way back to the cabin she told me:
Good things come from hard work and good intention.
When it was time for her to leave,
she asked me to help load her things.
I opened the trunk.
“Oh… I guess we need to take that out so I have room.”
There it was.
I’ve thought about that moment a lot over the years.
I wonder what my mother’s wagon looked like.
Because she hadn’t met Jesus either.
We both met the devil first.
And I’ve wondered since…
If my grandfather had a wagon too.
Because hurt people hurt people.
And that kind of weight gets handed down.
Generation to generation.
Until someone decides to let go of the handle.
I pulled that wagon around every day after that.
G.I. Joe.
Hot Wheels.
Rocks and tree moss.
Whatever I could find.
Sometimes a friend.
Sometimes a dog.
And soon…
All the trauma I was carrying
went in the wagon too.
I just kept pulling.
Down the trail of life.
Quietly.
Every day.
The payload got heavier.
I added a side wall to carry all the junk.
Most people I know are pulling something.
A backpack.
A suitcase.
Their own little red wagon.
Relationship is the biggest payload.
And I had a death grip on that handle.
THE MOMENT
Neither of us came into this marriage clean.
We both carried the weight of what hadn’t worked before.
Failed relationships.
Broken trust.
Things that don’t announce themselves at the door —
They move in quietly
and set up furniture.
We were equipped.
We were all in.
We just didn’t know yet
what a hundred percent would actually cost.
I had a death grip on that handle.
And I had no idea how long it would take to let go.
THE TURN
I was a victim of religion for a long time.
I’d watched people who said they knew Jesus.
And I kept looking at how they lived
and thinking…
That’s not something I want.
Marty introduced Him differently.
She didn’t argue.
She didn’t push.
She just said:
“I love Him whether you do or not.
And my love for you is magnified because of my love for Him.”
Then she told me about a long car ride.
Alone.
Crying out to Jesus.
That if He would turn her life around —
She would serve Him the rest of her life.
That is exactly what she has done.
He gave her to me.
She was the answer to a prayer
she had already prayed for me
before I even knew I needed it.
That dropped me.
It still took time.
These things always do.
But something shifted in me.
And I started asking different questions.
What holds?
What’s actually true?
Who is governing my life?
THE DRIFT
It sounds like freedom — living without a framework.
It isn’t.
Living without a rule of life doesn’t make you free.
It makes you available — to whatever gets there first.
Culture will answer it.
Comfort will answer it.
Old wounds will answer it.
I know.
Because I lived that way.
For years.
Age forty.
Billy Graham.
Four thousand five hundred people.
Marty was there.
And when the altar call came…
Who better to call me in
than Billy Graham himself.
He showed me what life looked like without Jesus.
And what it looked like with Him.
That night…
My grip on the handle began to loosen.
It would still take more.
Forty years of frozen grip
doesn’t release all at once.
THE REFLECTION
Here’s what I eventually understood:
We were already free agents.
Both of us.
We could have gone anywhere.
We chose each other.
Freely.
And we keep choosing.
Every day.
I choose her because she chooses me.
And God chose us.
Orchestrated us toward one another
through everything we had both been through.
The most powerful thing I have ever experienced in my life
is my marriage to Marty.
But choosing freely doesn’t mean choosing without authority.
It means choosing the right one.
We live under one authority.
Not culture.
Not urgency.
Not reputation.
Not fear.
Jesus Christ alone governs our lives.
We are not what we produced.
We are not what we lost.
We are not what others expected.
Our identity is received.
Not achieved.
The day I handed that handle to Jesus
and climbed into the back of the wagon —
Everything changed.
A friend once described it this way.
Imagine a football team.
Every time they huddle,
no matter the game,
no matter the score,
The quarterback calls the same play.
“On one — Abide, Abide, Abide!”
Not once.
Not when it’s convenient.
Every time.
Because when everything else changes —
the pressure, the opposition, the noise —
The assignment does not.
That’s thirty-four years right there. Heads together. Still leaning in. The wagon is still with us — but Jesus has the handle now. This is what it looks like when covenant holds.
That’s what a rule of life is.
Not a list of restrictions.
Not a performance standard.
A trellis.
Something that gives what’s growing between you
somewhere to go.
Walk free.
Stay yoked.
And let Christ carry the weight.
You don’t need more strength — you need to release the handle.
SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT
What are you still pulling…
And are you ready to hand someone else the handle?
MY PRAYER
Heavenly Father,
You know what I’ve been pulling.
You’ve always known.
Thank You for waiting.
For not forcing the grip open.
For loving me enough
to let me figure out I couldn’t carry it alone.
Thank You for Marty.
For the way she loved You first —
and showed me what that looked like
before I had language for it.
Bring me back to alignment
when I reach for that handle again.
And I will.
Remind me that a life governed by You
is not a smaller life.
It’s the only life that holds.
One day I hope to be on my knees in front of You —
saying thank You.
Personally.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
ABOUT G~
G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.
If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.
G~