Friday, September 18, 2015

The Bridge

The man walks to the bridge, and peers over the edge.

"How far?" he asks himself.

And immediately the answer: 37 feet.

Three stories to plummet to the fate that awaits all men. He considers the numerous evenings he's been out here, wondering. He's been out here so many times that it's become habit to ask that terribly cold, unfeeling question. The answer doesn't bring comfort, doesn't even consider the broken man. And yet, he asks,

"How far?"

How far to the icy river that pursues its own course, ignorant of life it passes by? In fact, many pass him by, ignorant of the broken man. They don't see his hurt; they too are the icy, dark currents that push their way past his life. He searches for hope, but no one offers him any. So, he asks,

"How far?"

How far would someone go to save a life? He put his life on the line for this country, but now, he is disregarded. He cared for the people of this nation, but do they care for him? As he stands alone on the bridge, wondering, he thinks about if his life is worth saving. 

He looks at the river, and then at his feet. He looks to the city skyline, wondering, ever wondering. The steely cold river remind him of war, of machine gun fire, and of death. How much was worth it? Did he make any difference?

He puts his life on the railing; he lays down three medals, worn from sharing a pocket with nervous hands. He lays them side by side by side. No one notices this broken man, standing on the bridge, in the middle of the night. No one sees the man who wonders, how far? He looks at his medals, and acknowledges their futility. They mean nothing to him. And yet, they mean everything. He pockets them again.

His routine has almost run it's course, as the river runs its own course three stories beneath him. Every night, the broken man is out here, at the bridge. And every night, as he gets ready to head back home, determined to face just one more day, he lays one more symbol on the rail. Not a war medal, because he knows he's no hero.

He stares at the blood-stained cross necklace, sitting there on the railing. He remembers his life; full of pain and death. He thinks of those he's hurt. And then he thinks of Jesus, whom he has hurt the most. He never got to sacrifice like Jesus did, but he knows how hard it can be. He watched his best friend die beside him; the one who pressed this cross into his hand as his own life drained away, and death seeped in cold and bitter, like the river. Bullets, cold and steely, don't consider men's lives.

The broken man knows that this doesn't end tonight. Life goes on, and he'll learn to face his past. He does so every night. He looks down to the river, and says, "Not tonight." Every night he says that, and every night he's back. He knows that Jesus holds his life, and no river is going to tear that from His hands. The man's mistakes were no match for grace.

One final time, the broken man asks himself, "How far?"

And immediately the answer: never too far.

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