bridges

I’ve written with increasing frequency about unhappy subjects of late. Like a flood of epic proportion, they have overtaken me — and, it seems, most of us. Death, sickness, natural disasters, and so much more.

I want to quit dwelling on the negative things before me.

I have, just tonight, realized anew that I have been standing — figuratively — at the water’s edge, watching the level rise. Mesmerized by the current and its power, I have awaited its inevitable surge above flood level.

And, watching the flow, I suddenly hear music.

No, really. Music.

Away, I’m bound away,
Across the wide Missouri.

I suppose it’s no coincidence the words to the old folk tune Shenandoah are coming from the speakers on my desk right now. No, I didn’t select the song; it just came up in the playlist the streaming music service delivers while I sit at my computer.

When I say no coincidence, I mean I probably needed a nudge in the right direction.

I can take a hint; I’ll head that way momentarily.

Many times, I’ve compared our existence here to a journey — a life-long expedition to see what is around the next bend and over the next hill.

We are strangers in a strange land, headed for a different home.

They do not belong to this world any more than I do. (John 17:16, NLT)

Having said that, I also realize I have stopped here beside the rushing waters and taken shelter a little ways above the river’s edge in a place of safety.

I’ve stopped here for too long.

Much too long.

Too long, staring at the intimidating water. Too long, wondering when the awful flood will recede. Too long, waiting for rescue.

The road goes on up the mountain on the other side of this cataract of white water. I can see it from here if I have the strength of will to tear my eyes away from the terrifying flood and lift them to the hills.

The painting you see above hangs in my home. It is one of my favorites. Although not necessarily from the brush of the most skillful of artists, the picture tells the story amazingly well.

The violent torrent roars and tumbles down the mountain rift with horrible menace. Nothing in its path could withstand for long the overwhelming power it wields. And yet, mere feet above the white water, on a rickety and cobbled-together wooden bridge, seemingly unconcerned and unfazed, a man stands resting.

The Lovely Lady and I jokingly refer to the piece of art as our Simon & Garfunkel painting, a none-too-clever reference to the duo’s song, Bridge Over Troubled Water.

A century old, the painting depicts nineteenth-century life in the Canadian Yukon Territory. The best word I can think of to describe living in that rugged wilderness? Hard.

Hard, and yet (dare I say it?) triumphant.

Here, amid the most unfriendly environment man could imagine, a bridge spans the cataract of water. In safety, where there was no safety, anyone can traverse the dangerous valley.

Someone had to build that bridge. Over the troubled water.

Over it.

While the river rushed and roared below them.

And still, I stand beside the flood and consider. It’s likely, you know, that if a bridge can be built over this river, there will be another one needing to be built up ahead, and another one, and another.

Rivers don’t run in a straight line, either. I might even have to build another bridge over this very same cascade, further on where it runs even wilder and more furiously.

Funny. As I stand here thinking, I seem to hear the voice of the red-headed lady who raised me.

“We’ll cross that river when we get to it.”

She is right. She always was.

But right now, I’m at this river.

Today, the rushing water directly ahead needs a bridge over it.

I have no choice but to follow the road ahead. And, it leads up the hill across this particular river. This wild, untameable flood.

It’s time to get building. It’s a good thing I know a Carpenter who is only too happy to teach the craft to any who ask.

After all, He built the greatest bridge of all time. Out of wood and nails.

Away, I’m bound away…

I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth.
(Psalm 121: 1,2 ~ ESV)

A bridge can still be built, while the bitter waters are flowing beneath. (Anthony Liccione)

The walls are covered with paintings of bridges. I’m not sure why. Call it one of my foibles, or call it an obsession if you want. Doesn’t matter…The bridges keep arriving from distant places, England, Canada, New York, California. The list goes on. I don’t really know how this got started, but I have this fascination with bridges. What’s really incredible is that my lovely wife also thinks it’s a wonderful way to decorate, so I’ve not had to hide this obsession away in a private room.

The first bridge painting we purchased came from a great little antique shop in Tulsa and was acquired for a very small amount of cash. A watercolor by a famous artist, it was a wonderful find for us. Of course, the artist was famous for his comic book art, not watercolors, therefore it’s not worth any great amount of money, but we wouldn’t part with it anyway, so it’s just as well. Many others have followed from different sources, flea markets, antique stores, eBay, and garage sales. I’ve given away one or two, but most of them are too valuable to me to be parted with and even though there’s no room available for all of them to be hung at once, some of them sit in a corner, awaiting their turn on the wall.

What’s so special about bridges? I see people in big cities and in the country alike, drive over them like they’re just another scrap of road. I’ve done that myself. One day, not too long ago, the lovely lady and I made the long trek to Cotter, Arkansas, some 135 miles away, just to dawdle a bit under the gorgeous rainbow bridge that crosses the White River there. After a great afternoon spent wandering the trails under and around the bridge, we pointed the car toward home. We hadn’t taken notice of any other notable bridges on our way over, but on the journey back, we noticed a small side road that obviously crossed one of the many streams and we decided to turn off the highway there. As we doubled back beside the highway and eased along the unbeaten lane, we looked back at the road we had left and were surprised to note that we had just passed over a beautiful little stone bridge, which could only be seen from the side angle we had chanced upon.

Day after day, the cars speed past, the passengers inside never dreaming that beauty lies just beneath them. To them it’s just a road, a means of transportation from one place to another. But we live in just such an era, when the destination is all important, and the journey is simply an inconvenience. For us, a chance decision, a fortuitous turn, changed the ho-hum journey into a reminder that surprises lie around every turn, and beauty will be found in the most unlikely places.

What is special about bridges? It’s an intrinsic factor, the very reason they are built in the first place. Bridges are the triumph of men over the elements. In a place where no traffic could pass, the connection is made, from one side of a deep gorge to another, from one bank of a mighty river to the other. Even in the most simple of bridges, a rock laid across a stream, the possibility exists to move goods, and livestock, and people from home to market and back again, without the dangers of raging waters or slippery passages on rocky creek beds. The beauty of bridges lies not just in their splendid design or simple usefulness, but in their conquest of the very environment around them.

I no longer speed from one dot on the map to another, unaware of the road that lies between. There are so many places along the way where men have struggled and conquered, where beautiful examples of craft and art make our journey possible. It’s true, many of these elegant behemoths have been sacrificed for plain-white-wrapper, generic concrete spans, but that doesn’t detract anything from the original visionaries, who saw the need, and took action, leaving a legacy of craftsmanship, architecture, and grace in their wake. Take a little time to admire what remains of their workmanship and dreams the next time you head for some far-off destination.

I guarantee you, all of life is better when you pay attention to what’s on the fringes and enjoy the journey.

“There’s a bridge to cross the Great Divide.
There’s a cross to bridge the Great Divide.”
(Point of Grace~The Great Divide)

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