Bridges, Floods and Angels (and lessons of life)

It was already the shank of the afternoon, as they used to say. The late-day sun had done about all it could do on that chilly Sunday and was slowly retreating behind a wood line of pines and bare hardwood trees. It would be dark on this dirt road in another hour. Paved roads were few in rural Georgia in the 1920s, and if you got behind the wheel of a car back then, that was information you ought to know, and you should also be sure you know what you’re doing. She knew all that. What she didn’t know was that the unfamiliar road she was traveling home on led to a wooden bridge that had just suffered through the Flint River flood of 1925. This bright, clear winter day had been a fine one. Families and friends had traveled to a small country church for a gathering, best described as half revival and half family reunion with a little preaching thrown in for good measure. When it came to a close, she hated to leave, but the trip back to Cordele was weighing on her mind. So, she loaded up sisters, nieces, nephews and her 10-year-old son into the Hupmobile touring car and started home. In those days, the touring car was a popular model. In later terms of appearance, we would describe it as a large four-door convertible, and with a full complement of family members squeezed into the big leather seats there was much conversation and socializing going on as the open car bounced along its way. Somewhere in the journey, a turn was missed, and before much longer as the car rounded a curve, the fading sunlight revealed the unwelcome sight of a bridge that promised nothing good to unsuspecting travelers. My grandmother was in trouble! She looked for any sign of help, but the errant country road offered up no passing travelers for assistance or advice, so carefully she inched the car forward up onto the planks of the bridge. The family members in the Hupmobile were now quietly holding their breath, and the painful creaking of the old wooden boards seemed to echo throughout the woods as the car made uneasy progress. Then, halfway across, the creaking ominously stopped. The bridge was slowing shifting under the weight of the car just enough to cause one rear wheel to slide off the planks. The last bit of afternoon light was nearly gone, and the day now seemed lost. A curtain of darkness was gently falling to uncover a night sky crowded with stars. But the stark silence only made the situation worse. Then faintly, across the hushed woods, voices floated down the riverbed. They grew louder and louder, and one star grew brighter. From out of the dark, an entire family emerged riding an old cotton wagon with one single lantern burning. They pulled up to the bridge and the father and two sons wasted no time in setting the car back on the bridge, and making sure my grandmother had good directions and a clear road ahead to Cordele. The family that happened along that evening was on the way to their evening church services. To my grandmother, I imagine they appeared more as a band of angels answering a prayer than a family on a cotton wagon, and I can imagine that she used that story quite often to advise anyone who would listen on the value of faith and regular church attendance on Sunday. That’s a lesson worth remembering no matter what bridges we have up ahead.