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)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2020. All Rights Reserved.
