The Old Bridge

It was late summer. The evening was unusually cool. A gentle breeze pushed white clouds across the sky. It was a perfect evening. Best of all, it was mine. An evening to myself was rare. I was in Omaha for the summer with The Salvation Army. The assignment kept me pretty busy. But in a few weeks my assignment would be complete and I would be going home—on my bicycle.

To prepare for the trip, I needed to get in all the riding I could. I wanted to be in Topeka by the end of the second day. And that would be difficult since I would be taking an indirect route. So, there was nothing I wanted more that evening than to go riding. And that is what I did.

On the country roads near Belleview, beyond the noise and congestion of the city, I should have been enjoying myself. Instead, I was miserable. For wherever I went, whatever I did, the decision followed me. I had made the decision but I could still change it. I didn’t want to change it but maybe I should. It was a decision with life changing consequences. And it remained open, inescapable and heavy.

Then, as I rode along, I saw an old bridge—an old iron bridge—on a gravel road next to the paved one on which I rode. This bridge had a special significance for me. It was a reminder of earlier days. You see, there was another old bridge near our home.

It was easy to reach the bridge from our house—if you were on foot. Just walk to the end of the driveway and turn to your left. Take the gravel road to the top of the hill. Notice that the gravel ends at the top. From there the hill descends steeply until it reaches the bridge.

One day I saw a car come roaring down our road, past our drive, and on up the hill. There it came to an abrupt halt. The driver paused for a moment, backed down to our driveway and turned around. Traffic on that part of the road might be suitable for tractors but not much else.

That made the bridge the perfect place to pray. With only God listening, I could pray aloud. Whatever the need or concern, I could share it there—and I did.

I hadn’t forgotten those days. I just wasn’t thinking about them. But the sight of that bridge brought it all back. It reminded me of an invitation: “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Accordingly, the Spirit said, “Come,” but my spirit said, “Later.”

The problem with “later” is that it soon becomes too late. God gets crowded out by our business. Happily my route retraced itself and I came by the bridge on my return.

This time I stopped, got off my bike and walked over to the bridge. After leaning the bike against a railing, I walked out to have a look at the creek. I knew what to expect: the dark, muddy water typical of farmland runoff. To my surprise the water below didn’t appear dark and muddy. Rather, it was brilliant blue. It was so calm that I could see the clouds above and birds gliding beneath them. To this tranquil scene was added a touch of humor as fish, swimming just below the surface, seemed to be joining the birds in the air.

It took me by surprise. Of course, all this beauty surrounded me before. But I really didn’t notice it until I saw it where it wasn’t expected. In the tranquility of that moment I felt at peace—released from the anxiety of indecision. In trying to capture the experience for my journal, I copied a line from the 23rd Psalm: “He restoreth my soul.”

I suppose the old iron bridge has been replaced by now. I know our old bridge has been. And the replacement is not nearly as inviting. But I have learned something since then—I have learned that wherever and whenever I seek Him, He will be there. And I’m sure He will be there for you too.

Mike Riley

January 28, 2018