The Bridge (or A Letter to my Therapist)

There once was a village tucked away in the mountainous region of Nepal. On three sides of the village were mountains protecting the village, and on the fourth a broad fast-flowing river across which there was a bridge. It was the only way in and out of the village and the villagers relied on the bridge. It had been built years ago by their ancestors who had long since died, but the current villagers did all they could to maintain it. When a plank would get loose, they would re-attach it. When the paint began to peal, they would add a new coat. It was as if the bridge was a part of the village, which only made it more unsettling when they learned it needed to be replaced.

“The bridge has served us well,” one person said. “But the time has come to replace it with a new bridge.”

“Can’t we just keep repairing it like we have,” someone asked. “It’s all we’ve ever known. It served our ancestors well. Can’t we keep maintaining it?”

“No,” came the adamant response. “The bridge’s foundation is rotted, and even our well-intentioned maintenance is only slightly effective.”

So the villagers agreed to tear down the bridge and replace it, but as the work began many had second thoughts. When the bridge was half-way taken apart, they approached the village leader again.

 “Why’d we decide to do this anyway?” asked one person.

“Maybe we should stop and put it back the way it was,” said another. “At least we could walk across it then.” 

“The problem is you are only seeing the bridge that is being taken apart,” shared the wise leader. “You need to look and see the bridge that’s coming.”

“But how can we see that?” someone asked. “It doesn’t exist.”

“But it does!” replied the leader. “We just haven’t built it yet.”

Another Bench

I was recently at a remarkable retreat center where the grounds were as inspirational as the facility itself. During the first of my many walks on the trail through the woods, I stopped at a bench with a particularly serene view. There was a small creek with enough water and rocks to make the sound one craves when sitting and thinking, and I quickly felt I had found thespot. I planned to spend most of my time sitting on this bench.

After awhile, though, I stood to continue walking on the trail and was surprised to find an even better bench around the bend. Thisis the spot, I thought to myself. The trail then led up a steep hill, which I did not particularly want to climb, but at the top was an even more amazing bench surrounded by massive boulders, a cross and altar. Sitting on this third bench, I reflected on the progression of benches, and, maybe because I was on a retreat and had to think about something, couldn’t help but see a lesson in my experience.

So often, I reach a place and think I’ve arrived. This is the spot, I think, and am content to remain there forever. Like the time I moved to a new town and never wanted to leave, I got a job that was ideal for me, or a loved one and I have a difficult “steep” conversation that brings us to a better place.  So often, I fool myself into thinking I have arrived, that things can never get any better than this. 

Then, the situation changes and I am forced to move on. Such changes are difficult and I often think I’ll never find a place like that again, but then I learn what the benches were teaching me the other day: there’s always another bench waiting. The next town has friends I’d never have met, the new job brings out something in me I didn’t know existed, or the next chapter in a relationship brings an intimacy we’ve never known. The next “bench,” if you will, brings gifts of its own, but I never know about them until I am willing to move further down the way. 

I think it’s also of life itself. I’ve been given such a wonderful life, one I should savor and give thanks for daily. I sometimes think life can get no better, that I want to sit right here forever, but I would miss so much by doing so. On a deeper level, I so often get fooled into thinking this life is as good as it gets. When I do, I cling to this world with all my might.

But I believe there’s another bench waiting for me. I believe there’s another life around the bend, out of sight, that will put this one to shame. Funny that it took a walk in the woods to remind me.

Lessons from the Beach II

The following comes from sitting on the beach watching two children playing (described in the last Brushstroke).

Lessons from the Beach II

“Till he appeared, and the soul felt its worth.” O Holy Night

The grandmother eventually returned to her seat and the brother and sister went on with their games in surf. Each time they came up on shore, though, they looked over at where the grandmother and their parents were sitting. It was as if they were waiting and hoping for something. Then, it happened. 

The Dad rose from his seat, grabbed a Boogie Board and came and played alongside his children. The squeals of delight when he stood and began to head their way were almost ear-splitting, and the young boy did something like an Irish Jig until he lost his balance and fell into the sea. The next few moments were pure heaven for the children, and it filled my soul with joy and anguish to watch. Most things of authentic beauty do that.

We all do such a good job appearing and sounding independent. We live life for so long with an “I’ve got this” mentality we almost fool ourselves into believing it. The fact is, deep down, each of us looks off in hopeful expectation that maybe, just maybe, we’ll be joined in the surf. We do it on Sundays sitting in our pew. We do it when we’re alone in the car, or on a walk. We do it countless other times, whenever we let our self-reliant guards down. 

In the end, I don’t think any of us wants to swim alone. We long for God’s presence and, while we may not squeal like a child or do an Irish Jig, our hearts delight whenever we feel God’s presence swimming beside us. 

May this be such a day.