Times when survival demands we leave the sinking ground we stand on, walk over air and water, and cross to the other side.
These times are scary.
The shifting underfoot is frightening.
And the other side is unknown.
The trees and rocks we hold for balance have slipped out of reach, or worse, fallen and crumbled.
The abyss yawns beneath, a monstrous mouth stretched open, screaming its demonic cry of need for another sacrificial victim.
And we scream even louder, that will not be me, not me.
We need a bridge. But how do we find one?
Sometimes, we find an existing bridge by changing direction.
Sometimes, we find we have to build the bridge ourselves.
But sometimes, there is no time for finding or building.
And that is when we find someone who lays down as a living bridge.
Or that someone finds us.
The roots of bridge start with beam, which means living tree, and stretch further back to the Latin columna lucis, the Biblical pillar of fire, a manifestation of God's presence that provided light so the Jews could travel by night during their escape from Egypt.
A bridge of shining light.
A guide to safe passage.
The bridge beckons: cross me.
In the time we have, we examine the bridge, size it up and test for stress, looking for weak points and signs of decay.
We take a step to see if it will hold us.
And then we trust in faith.
And when we trust in faith, the miracle of transport to freedom begins.
