That Little Footbridge

October 3, 2023

Love does not end with the physical death of a dear loved one. However, it does change. Not suddenly. But it does change as life does its thing and unfolds the way it does.

It’s not that we “get over it” and “move on” with our lives. I think, in some ways, we never get over it and move on. Life is just not that simple. The past follows us everywhere we go. It’s part of who we are and wake up to every morning … this side of hell or not.

Every fresh opening of each new petal of life reveals new dimensions and windows of opportunity to peek through.

With the opening of each petal, I find myself both amazed and baffled in the same breath.

I have gotten to be quite spontaneous where this business of going and doing things is concerned. No great amount of thought goes into it these days. I often tell people that I’m like a goose anymore. I wake up in a brand-new world every day. Sometimes I’ll go several days without any mindfulness at all about what day of the week it is. Except for a few important items, I am no longer bound by the calendar and ticking clock.

The thought came to me this morning as I pleasantly drove the back roads to spend a little time with my daughter and son-in-law. The thought was to take the other road on the way back and stop at Splinter Hill Bog. It’s one of those special places for me. It’s one of those places that Shirli and I frequently visited to watch and feel the seasonal changes.

How many times? I don’t know. Except in the brutal heat of the summer, we were always off somewhere enjoying the changing of the seasons and mining precious memories.

The first time is always different. Floods of memories fill a realm of emotion that I’ve never known in my life. It’s hard to describe how these floods of memories cause me to feel. It’s a strange dual-natured thing where sadness and sorrow are revitalized but mixed with generous measures of thanksgiving and joy. And, I suppose, it’s an emotional realm that can only be entered through the gates of the deep sorrow and pain caused by the death of a dear loved one.

There is a little footbridge down in that normally wet bottom. That was my destination. Maybe three-quarters of a mile to get there? The trail goes farther after crossing the bridge. It’s a pretty good uphill go of it into some piney rolling hills. With it still ninety degrees in the early afternoon, I didn’t want any of it.

The whole walk had a hallowed nature about it. Though I was entirely by my physical self, I was far from alone as I casually moseyed along soaking in the sights and sounds that surrounded me … the birdsongs, the contrast of colors of blooming wildflowers, and those ever-fascinating bug eating pitcher plants … all of it under a beautiful blue sky with a few white puffy clouds floating along to who knows where. Oh. And all of that interspersed with me talking to the Lord [and to Shirli] about one thing or another.

I stayed on that little footbridge for what seemed to me to a long time. An almost overwhelming sense of peace and tranquility captured me. It was almost enchanting. I felt so close to everything that I can’t see with my natural eyes. I needed to be there. I was supposed to be there. I had to be there. It was an appointment that I did not make. It was an appointment made for me by a Hand that I didn’t see.