Bridges, Part One

 

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 2^nd 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….