It's not often I take the path down to the bridge.
I remember the first time I saw the bridge, how it had appeared as if by magic and Pastor Debbie was so excited to show it off that she took me and another woman down the path at night, a flashlight guiding the way.
Bridges are magical. Bridges in woods especially so, because they make us remember that once we believed that bridges took us to whole other worlds, that bridges were things frequented by boxcar children and any other child who looked for a way to escape.
But the bridge at Hope had fallen in disrepair. And when I last saw it a few months ago, it was missing planks, rotting and it had become the host to various fungi.
I began avoiding the path altogether. It was dark and overgrown and not welcoming.
But today, perhaps because I waited until the sun had time to burn off the fog, I found the path filled with sunlight. And a star-like pattern in the ferns marked the way.
What did I find?
A bridge in repair, almost anonymously (as I find most good things done at church are), as if the shoemaker's elves had called in their friends to work on the bridge.
Though it looked healthier, it still had room for improvement.
But I was touched and my heart, which had felt very heavy during December, lifted every so slightly to know that even things seemingly forgotten back deep in the woods still have someone to care for them.
I remember the first time I saw the bridge, how it had appeared as if by magic and Pastor Debbie was so excited to show it off that she took me and another woman down the path at night, a flashlight guiding the way.
Bridges are magical. Bridges in woods especially so, because they make us remember that once we believed that bridges took us to whole other worlds, that bridges were things frequented by boxcar children and any other child who looked for a way to escape.
But the bridge at Hope had fallen in disrepair. And when I last saw it a few months ago, it was missing planks, rotting and it had become the host to various fungi.
I began avoiding the path altogether. It was dark and overgrown and not welcoming.
But today, perhaps because I waited until the sun had time to burn off the fog, I found the path filled with sunlight. And a star-like pattern in the ferns marked the way.
What did I find?
A bridge in repair, almost anonymously (as I find most good things done at church are), as if the shoemaker's elves had called in their friends to work on the bridge.
Though it looked healthier, it still had room for improvement.
But I was touched and my heart, which had felt very heavy during December, lifted every so slightly to know that even things seemingly forgotten back deep in the woods still have someone to care for them.
Comments
Post a Comment