Illumination Writes

Originally Published May 11, 2022

Sometimes people find themselves drawn to certain architectural structures. I constantly find myself being drawn to bridges. It’s an odd thing to be drawn to—trust me, I know how crazy this sounds.

There was one bridge, between Pasco and Kennewick, which I remember being blue-green in color. I like to think I met Jesus there simply because it makes the rest of my life make more sense. I was three, so I guess I am at liberty to make something up. My mom just said that I said the prayer to know Jesus in the car, driving to who knows where doing who knows what. My mom doesn’t remember either.

When I was a toddler, my mom would shout every time we crossed that bridge, “Here we go, over the bridge!” It later became a running joke that I would roll my eyes at, but smile on the inside.

Eventually, my family found themselves attending a vineyard-like church called ‘The Bridge.’ It was very pentecostal, but not in the normal pentecostal way. The presence of God was stewarded in that place so well, that as you walked in the room, the smell of coffee and the Holy Spirit would hit you at the exact same time. It was glorious.

In 2008, we had to leave that wonderful church—and we weren’t the only ones. Slowly, God sent out the congregation on new assignments across the United States, to the point where there was no congregation left to meet on Sundays. The Bridge dissolved but it left a permanent mark on my life.

In the window of the church, there was a wire model structure of the more famous Kennewick bridge, which is a white cable bridge and more aesthetically pleasing than the blue-green one from my childhood. I remember the model so clearly that I decided to paint that very bridge for a college art class. The painting is unfortunately unfinished and I am tempted to go in and fix it, but I may just paint it again entirely. Only one person in my art class could identify exactly what bridge it was. While the painting in my own artsy opinion quite frankly stinks, at least it is recognizable.

Shortly after this class, I went through a crisis season of hating absolutely anything and everything I created. My boyfriend (at the time) adored my art so I gave him pretty much everything, otherwise. I would have thrown it away. After we broke up, this very painting was the one art piece I asked to have back. I didn’t fully know why, but I knew I would need it. It is now in my office, where I look at it from time to time, and it’s the only piece of my art at this point that I don’t loathe.

Speaking of former lovers, I had my prom pictures taken on a little bridge that goes over McKay creek. Those photos were my favorite to look at, and every time I walk across that bridge, I can still remember exactly where I stood and how I posed. That bridge memory is bittersweet.

I will still frequent Community Park, walk over the bridge, and notice that the wood is looking more worn each year I live in this little town. The landscape of the creek has dramatically changed after a flood and countless kids wading in the water.

When I was a kid we would play ‘Pooh Sticks’ from the popular Disney movie and run from one side of the bridge to the other, hoping that we wouldn’t miss the stick that would float by first. Countless of our family photos have been taken here as well, none of them showing the massive spider webs that are constructed between the metal bars in the spring. If it weren’t for the spiders, you would probably find me there on a Tuesday evening, sitting down with my legs over the side of the bridge, swinging freely in the air.

Ideally, that’s what I would do on every bridge if I could. I hate heights but I love the idea of finding a high place and sitting there, swinging my legs back and forth, contemplating my life. Although, if it was over the Columbia river, I would see that activity as immensely more terrifying than the little creek at home.

As I walked over the bridge again yesterday, I was reminded of how things have changed. Everything that happened on these bridges is over now. Bridges are the ever-present symbols of crossing over—transition. But more importantly, bridges are connectors, linking two locations, or past to present.

I was always told not to ‘burn bridges,’ and I hate to admit that it’s my first instinct when something goes wrong. I am learning that not all connections to my past are bad, they are just unfruitful. Some bridges are not meant to be crossed over again. Once you are on the other side, there’s no need to go back, but the bridge remains so others can follow.

Perhaps that is why I am so drawn to bridges. I am myself a bridge, linking one chapter of my life to the next, leaving an open path for others to follow me as I chase after the only thing that matters. I will resist the urge to burn it all down, knowing that once I’ve crossed over, I don’t ever have to go back.