Bridges,
Part One - The Lost Bridge
October 2005
As I drove along the
lonely and bumpy road, devoid of any love or maintenance for years, it struck
me just how isolated from society I truly was. I was a man on a quest, a man on
a journey of discovery if you will. Suddenly, a relatively modern bridge with a
concrete superstructure loomed before me, and I slowed my old Chrysler sedan as
I crawled across. As I parked my car onto the shoulder away from any traffic
that might magically appear, I took in the silence that greeted me through the
open window of my car. I opened the door and slowly exited my car, making sure to
shut the door almost as reverently as if I were slipping late into a Sunday
morning church service. Aside from the occasional bird chirping, the only sound
that greeted me was the crunch of gravel beneath my feet and the cool autumn
wind that nipped at me as it rushed through the leafless trees. As far as I
could look, I could not see another soul. The lonely countryside seemed barren
and desolate, many of the trees having already shed their leaves as old
winter’s song had already begun to faintly sing its tune. Before me, it stood; yes,
it stood, magnificent and rusted, tons of iron that had long ago been melted,
shaped, and crafted into its present form at the hands of long-dead laborers. Before
me it stood, a form that had been present in the vision of dreams that had
haunted my imagination for years; it stood as a marker to the place where the
present met the past and both looked ahead to the future.
Many years ago, as a kid,
I had always noticed and been fascinated by this abandoned old bridge. In the early
days of my childhood, we lived in a town that was about 40 minutes away from my
late grandmother; the easiest way to get to my grandmother’s house was to make
the drive through the beautiful yet remote countryside. I always looked forward
with great anticipation to seeing this magnificent bridge. I would beg my
mother to slow down so that I could hang my head out the window and take in the
magnificence of it as the rumble of her car carried me across the parallel
concrete bridge that had long ago replaced it. I would imagine what it had been
like for people in years past to cross that bridge. It was only a one lane, one
car at a time affair. What had it been like to drive across the wooden planking
of that bridge? What kinds of cars had gone across the bridge? What would
happen if 2 cars came simultaneously from opposing directions? Did they play a
game of chicken? Had anyone ever lost at the game and gone crashing down into
the river below? Did the bridge shake when they drove across it? Even though I
was only 7 or 8 at the time, my imagination was as broad as the Grand Canyon.
Of course, my mother being her nervous self, would never stop the car and let
her 7 year old son get out and go explore the bridge. So as a child, I had to
be content with hanging my head out the window and taking it in from the relative
safety of the much uglier concrete superstructure.
I have long had a love
affair with old wrought-iron bridges. I am not talking about the bridges of
today – bridges that are boring, have no character and are about as shapeless
as the twenty first century automobiles that cross them. No, the bridges that I
am talking about were created many years ago – magnificent huge iron structures
that as a kid, seemed to tower up into the sky. Bridges that had stood the test
of time. Bridges that had carried many souls across. Bridges that were now
mostly abandoned and derelict. As an adult, the fascination with these bridges
has not ceased; in fact, it has only increased. It makes me incredibly sad that
most of these bridges have long since fallen into such a state of derelict that
they have either been demolished by human hand or become so unstable that they
are no longer safe to be around. In my early 20s, I made it a point to go
around and photograph a few of these bridges that I remembered from my
childhood.
On the crisp October day,
I left my car and I walked down the path to where the massive old wrought-iron
bridge had stood for many decades. My goal was simple. I wanted to stand before
that bridge and take in the magnificence of the structure before me. I wanted
to walk across the ancient wooden decking and lean over the side as I watched
the lonely river below me slowly make its way south. A few miles below me, this
river would meander into the Pearl River, and from there the waters would eventually go all
the way to the sea. The thought amazed me that given enough time, you could
literally travel anywhere in the world and you could indeed begin your journey
right from the very spot where I was standing. As I walked down towards the old
roadbed that had once led to the bridge, I took in the fact that trees and
bushes – big trees and bushes – had grown up and were now blocking the entrance
to the bridge. I approached the bridge and made my way through the jungle to
the entrance of the bridge. Suddenly, time stood still. My childhood met my
present day and the stars seem to line up perfectly for once in my life. I was
now going to get my chance. I was going to get to cross that bridge and stand
in the middle and look over the side and watch the waters flow to the sea. I
was pumped! But then I noticed something. Even though the iron superstructure
of the bridge looked quite solid and stable, the wooden decking had seen years
of neglect take its toll. There were holes in the wooden decking. There was
even a small pine tree sapling somehow growing up out of the wooden decking!
Slowly I crept forward, and I felt the wood kind of bounce beneath my feet. The
kind of bounce that will never end well. Far below me, the murky waters seemed
to almost stand still. Time seemed to grind to a halt in that moment. The past
and the present collided. But they provided no path to the future. My journey
had come to an abrupt halt, and I chickened out.
That day, I did not get to
make my journey across that old iron bridge. I took a lot of photographs from
different angles, but I did not do the one thing that I had set out to do: walk
across the bridge. As I stood among the trees and bushes blocking the entrance
to the bridge, I could see the far side of the bridge where, yet another jungle
awaited anyone who dared to cross. But I just could not make myself do it. The
chasm that stood before me that day represented not just the physical
separation before me, but also a metaphorical and emotional separation in my
own life.
2020 was one hell of a year; I think that you would be
hard-pressed to find any living soul who would dare disagree with me on that.
Instead of reaching out, connecting, reflecting, praying, building, and just
falling on my knees before God, I shut the door on everything and everyone.
We all have neglected bridges
in our lives. Even though they may not be physical bridges, it is so critical that
these metaphorical bridges of the emotional sort be maintained. My bridges were
not maintained last year. All the painful pieces of my past that I’d so laboriously
spent time unpacking and sorting through were packed away in their boxes and
put back into the attic. The decking of my bridges has become so rotted and so
brittle that I cannot even cross them anymore. I let loneliness, isolation,
despair, hopelessness, and low self-worth become the elements that eroded the
decking of my bridge. I was asked last year to begin contributing to the
Samson blog, but I have done such a poor job of it. I let the excuses of work,
raising a family, finishing up my 2nd Masters degree, and life in general
become the excuses that kept me from contributing to this blog.
So I am beginning a new
series – I hope (with hope being keyword) to try to post a new blog entry in
the series at least once a week. I invite you to join me along on this journey
and walk with me as I build new bridges and rebuild the existing bridges in my
own life. Maybe you have burned bridges that you wish you had never burned.
Maybe you have not burned your bridges, but simply have existing bridges in
your life with neglected wooden decking that prevents your safe passage. But
whatever the case may be, as you stand before the chasm in your own life and
stare at the other side with no means bridge the gap, that is the moment you should
be on your knees asking the father to give you the tools to begin repairing
those bridges.
Having captured all the
photographs that I desired with my new Canon SLR camera, I started my trek back
towards the road. My trek back towards the present. The sun had started its
slow descent behind the red and gold tapestry in the sky, and at that point in
the horizon where the day gives way to night, the first faint hints of the indigo
night slowly began to appear. A coyote howled in the distance. I still had not
seen another soul. I climbed into my old blue Chrysler and cranked it up. It was
a noisy, clattering, but trusty old steed. The noisy but faithful old engine
was music to my ears and gave me a little sense of reassurance. I drove down
the road with the vision of the old iron bridge growing smaller in my rearview
mirror. It would be many years later before I would ever travel down that road
and visit the bridge again….
