Somebody must have come along early that murky morning.
Made a little bridge from boards to ease my step to the shore.
To the skyline of blue over pinkish orange sunrise and smooth sand.
So, I stepped lightly over the little dune and glanced towards the water, then lifted my head up towards heaven to begin my day.
To begin my walk.
My good walk. Hopeful and clear.
Somebody saw the muddy, grown up mess and bridged it with cast aside boards to beckon me to the shore.
To encourage my steps towards good
I’m remembering my grandma and her marked up Bible and the vision of her in the lamplight every night, steadfast and determined.
Remembering the traveling pastor who taught me of grace and welcomed a single mama to the tiny little generations of family run church.
Remembering the Easter egg hunts and the grace of the little ladies who loved on me because they loved on my children.
The black station wagon that pulled up to the house and picked Heather up for Sunday School at the home of me, the single mama, trying to make it alone.
Feeling scarlet and scorned. But a bridge was built towards my good walk because of a little black station wagon and a grandma and grandpa.
Heather loving little Poplar Springs Baptist Church, a bridge to my good walk.
And Austin a toddler, sitting as quiet as a little old man.
Another bridge…a clear and easy path to my good walk.
Friends like Debra who never rejected, always prayed.
Family who waited to see my good walk, the walk of faith and strength.
So many bridges to the good walk…path clearing people, beckoning me lovingly to follow along in their following of Jesus…on the good walk.
Good Friday, what a good walk, a long and torturous walk to the cross.
Jesus, miraculous, beautiful, merciful Savior
Saver of lives, redeemer of scorned and sinful, friend of sinners and thieves, followed by many as he walked on earth and then followed by few as he chose the surrendered walk, ultimate sacrifice to bridge our wrong, to make clear the good way, the good walk.