mad truck disease

I like old trucks. They have a certain smell, a certain patina, and a certain attitude all their own.  For me it started at about age 5, I can still remember the 1959 Fords building houses in our old neighborhood.  Not really sure what a Ford was, I must have heard it somewhere, but I thought all trucks were Fords.  I was to learn later, when moving, that an old Dodge Job Rated pickup across the street from the early fifties enlightened me.  But soon big trucks, real trucks, trucks meant to work and build things came into my life.  Building the new development across Hetfield Ave. meant Public Service gas company trucks, 1 ton canopy trucks pulling compressors, for jack hammers.  Cement trucks from Wel-Don pouring curbs and gutters, and graders filling in between with gravel.  And big dump trucks, B Model Macks, GMC’s, and Internationals, all hauling asphalt for Hetfield Avenue’s resurfacing.  It was Ollie Howarth’s GMC dump truck with a trailer pulling his backhoe, and his long, lowboy flat bed for bulldozers and steam shovels, sans steam.  It was a truck junkies world to live in, and the early sixties with subdivisions being built was the place to be.  It gave me Mad Truck Disease, suddenly all my Tonkas had names, I knew the drivers from countless hours sitting as close as possible without getting in the way.  Teams of men swinging shovels, shaking with jack hammers, and using words I never heard before, but knew not to repeat at home. 

And at night after the crews had gone home, we would go and look closer at the construction equipment, daring to sit on bulldozers, climb into the cab of graders, and stare up at the steam shovels, wondering what all the black handles were for, half afraid we might get caught, even more afraid if we were asked if we wanted to sit on them.  But it was the trucks, the dump trucks, the flat bed semis, the cement trucks, and other large trucks that made me decide at the time I wanted to drive one.  Even a cool 1960 Chevy with the heavy eyebrows, caked with mud.  Sneaking a peek next door at Ollie’s GMC, enough to make a young man’s mind go crazy and dream. It was cool watching the cement truck driver spray off the chute with his hose, after guiding its load to perfection.  And finally the smell of fresh asphalt, which still smells good to me today, from a line of big dump trucks.  D&L Construction’s big B Model Macks in procession, then back home to the Tonkas.  With Joey’s Big Mike, a dual axle dumper my favorite, and with my name on it, made it even cooler.  We had our own construction projects, damming up the gutters, flooding them with water, and then bulldozing them down and starting over.  But somehow it wasn’t the same, maybe in our minds, but the men that worked them never got called in for dinner, never had to clean up, and even ate their lunch on the tailgates.  Sometimes buying them from Canteen trucks, the precursor to the roach coach.  Even Cisco in his 1952 Ford Good Humor truck was good on any hot summer afternoon.  It was all about the trucks, it seemed they were the most important aspect of my life, and someday I would own one.  Building, hauling, and dumping-making America great.  If only I cold wait 20 years....

But not all trucks were for construction.  I remember the coal truck at my Grandpa’s house, raising its bed in the air, then dumping it down a shoot.  I remember Nana’s fuel oil truck with its 100’ hose parked out front.  The time a dump truck got stuck in the mud in our back yard.  Watching the Railway Express trucks predating UPS at the train station.  Route 22 filled with semis, the smell of diesel, grease and oil, and of brakes and clutches burning.  All were part of Mad Truck Disease for which there is no cure.  And somehow over the years driving anything from bottle trucks to bobtails to semis, it hasn’t been the same.  It seems that the dreams seen through younger eyes, when they are still wide open, is the best, but demanding even more.  And with today’s trucks a little more than heavy duty cars with pick up beds, add in SUV’s and trucks are a sad commentary on what they used to represent.  It took men, tough men who got dirty to work in trucks, now  I’m not so sure.  Sitting in an air conditioned cab, using a i-pad to determine loads, take me back.  They aren’t the cure, but only make me want the old trucks even more.  There is no cure for Mad Truck Disease, and as long as the memories can be remembered, the disease will continue.  At least at my house I hope it does. 

Being a Christian for almost 40 years, I have changed a lot.  And so has the church.  Saturday night services, mega churches, on line churches, and digital Bibles.  In some ways I fell like we don’t get down and dirty in our walk any more, we have too many committees, budgets, and polls on what people want.  We have forgotten to ask God what he wants.  Big screens have taken over for small meetings at home, too many leave Jesus in church, or as an old boss told me, “it only makes sense not to bring God to work.”  So many don’t.  We don’t see spiritual construction projects the same, true we have Harvest Crusades, and retreats, but we are missing the neighborly visits, the spontaneous meetings on the front yard, and that it is all about Jesus.  We need to get back to our roots, we have become an air conditioned work truck never getting dirty, that’s for someone else.  We miss the chance to build relationships because the people may stink, they may have tubes running out of them, or be in jail.  We are missing out on the one to one gospel sharing, and rather than becoming a team, have become a crowd.  Some pass out tracts, “let God sort them out,” they say.  While others pick up the tracts thrown on the ground.  Some stand on corners and yell, scaring me away.  Some invite others to church, over and over.  Never listening to them, just talking.  No way to build any relationship, or any road.  Maybe that is why I like old trucks, they are simple like the gospel.  Built to do a job, not pretty, but functional, their beauty coming from within.  Not afraid to get dirty, to just do their job day after day.  Year after year.  Letting the creator guide them, following his plans.  Like the gospel is, and should be.  I have this weird idea that if we all did as Jesus instructed, we would all be happier, more successful, and see church growth like never before.  Share with the Lazarus God puts in your way.  Pour love on them.  Be kind and good to all, a fruit of the spirit.  Listen to them, build a relationship, and let them see God in you.  Introduce the spirit in your life, and watch as roads are graded, bridges built, and lives changed.  All by Jesus.  You just get to drive the truck.  Or the grader.  You get to pour cement, but God provides the growth.  Like any worthwhile project it takes teamwork.  With Jesus at the head.  Maybe we need a little Mad Truck Disease to spread through the church, to get us excited again, to be the kid in Christ we are called to be.  Maybe it’s time to let God be God, for all men are liars.  To trust him daily, to see a family built using all its members.  Maybe climb up in the cab with him and see where you are going...according to his plans. 

It is time to bring back Mad Truck Disease.  To go forth with the gospel following the plans of Jesus.  To get excited,and be excited about him.  Let the pretty boys sit in their air conditioned tomb, I want to get out where the action is, where Jesus is.  I want to smell grease, taste the gas in the air, see the dirt move, and touch lives.  I want to see Jesus....wish I hadn’t sold all my old Tonkas now.  Big boy toys come in all shapes and sizes.  Regardless of their age, some never are put away.  Don’t put away Jesus, get him out and go back to the basics.  Paul bulldozed, Apollos graded, but it was Jesus that provided the growth. 

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

the mechanic's car

My long departed friend Rex was one of the best all around mechanics I ever knew.  He could diagnose and fix most things, and have them running better in no time than by the manual.  So in his spare he was rewriting the technical manuals for Suzuki motorcycles, this back in the early 1980’s.  Per Suzuki.  He could find problems others didn’t think to look for, on one ride to Arches National Park, the battery went dead on my KZ750.  When it wouldn’t start, Rex noted my tail light was brighter than he thought it should be, and found my rear brake pedal adjusted too tight, keeping the brake light on, running down the battery.  A few seconds with a 10 mm wrench, a push start, and trip and bike both fixed.  Needless to say, I check all brake lights on bikes I ride since then. But like all mechanics I have known since entering the automotive field as an Assistant Service Manager for Ford, his vehicles were always in need of repair.  And older models, that ran well, just needed a few things.  His 1972 Gran Torino took him regularly between Prescott and Durango, yet it shook so bad at 40 because it needed a U-joint, which he had in a box at work, but never installed.  And didn’t worry about it, “I just don’t drive 40,” was his reasoning.  His XS750 always needed a quart of oil, but always one quart down, heaven help us if we we didn’t top ours off.  But I found that to be more normal, as good techs know what works, what won’t, and what you better fix right now.  Their cars and motorcycles are always in process, they never have time to work on their own, probably because they are working on ours at night after work.  From Mercedes Benz to Ford, over 37 years it has never changed.  bike or car, truck or RV, Harley or Honda, it doesn’t matter, they’ll fix it when they get to it....whenever that may be.  And they are always are the ones who never break down when riding.  Meanwhile for those of us who live by the maintenance schedule, we call guys like Rex and Mickey.  Who after the “didn’t I tell you to fix this,” speech, fix us up, get us going and all is well, until the next time.  Maybe if we rode their vehicles instead of ours.....

And there is the story of the shoemaker, whose kids’ shoes always need replacing.  My girlfriend in high school family owned a shoe store, named Paula’s Shoes after her.  But in all the time I knew her, she only had one pair of new shoes each year.  Maybe function before form, the money saved to be used on her mother’s weekly appointments at the hair stylist before going out Saturday nights, never thought to look at her shoes.  But like Rex and motorcycles, she got by just fine, at least her parents didn’t cut back on clothes.  Good thing an uncle didn’t sell dresses.  So we see a pattern forming, or one that has formed, almost to the point of surpassing urban legend status, and becoming law of the land.  Think about the jobs your friends’ fathers had when growing up, from yards to bikes, from selling cars to fixing them, they knew how to just get by.  Maybe because they were just getting by.  Providing food and clothes for a family, just cautious in the shoe or car department.  After all shoes would wear out anyway, and cars were traded every two years.  So no need to hurry up and wait, there will always be next year.  Or the next ride.  But for the rest of us, we kept the system full and operating.  Or found another way to work when our cars broke down.

PK’s, or preacher’s kids, have always had a tough time.  Very few I knew growing up, or even now, turn out as righteous as their parents hope they do.  They have been raised knowing all the rules, making all the sacrifices to not miss church, to say the right things, and to not embarrass God.  Maybe not in that order, but close.  They face extreme peer pressure from church, then at school, then at home, knowing all the rules, but sometimes breaking them and getting caught, while larger offenses go unnoticed or unpunished.  We are told to “honor our mother and father,” and it is the first command with a reward.  But we are also told that as parents, we should “not provoke our children to wrath.”  And of course we don’t learn that one until we are parents, it seems we always have a rule or two to be reminded of when we slip up, how nice those who remind us always do it in love.  Or so they say.  But we are told in Romans 8, to have our mind set on the spirit.  Which is hard enough after being told right from wrong continuously.  And when the spirit comes in conflict with the law, who generally wins?  The law, as it spelled out right there, the spirit sometimes means taking a chance.  And will only be known by you and God, leaving others to judge.  Many times wrong.  But Paul is reaching deeper, but not so deep we cannot get it when he writes this.  For although it is the flesh vs. the spirit, it is not the flesh vs. the law.  And without the spirit, we will fail, and not know it. 

Fun, making money, and living life may be against some interpretation of the law, but are not wrong in themselves.  But if they are all you live for, then they are.  It is OK to have fun, make money, and enjoy life, just not at the expense of others.  Proverbs is filled with many examples of good advice.  Living in the spirit means that above all you seek God first, while showing love and compassion to others.  it is OK to have nice things, just so they don’t own you.  To travel to nice places, just so church is on the list near the top.  Being careful not to ignore God, and honor the creation rather than the creator.  So it comes down to value systems, and just like yuppies know the price of everything, but don’t know the value of anything, you don’t have to be a yuppie to sin.  You can have fun, ride nice motorcycles, and travel at the same time as giving glory to God.  It is our choice, God first or a new BMW.  Feed the poor, or another new pair of shoes.  It is seeing things from God’s point of view, rather than our own.  We must change to God’s ways to see God.  And so he sent Jesus.

I have some Christian friends who think it is not right I ride so many new bikes, they are jealous.  Yet miss the fact that God knows my passion for motorcycles, and fulfills it.  He is the connection to Mickey and Triumph, why be bitter when you can be better?  Your value system changes when you look at it through God’s eyes, and walk in the spirit.  It is a choice...the spirit doesn’t remove you from life, it puts you back in it.  And you find life, whereas before you knew all the things you shouldn’t do.  If your whole relationship with God is based on rules and regulations, you are under bondage as was a Pharisee.  Ask God to reveal his spirit, it was good enough to lead you to Christ, it will be good enough to lead you through life.  See things from God’s point of view, it makes all the difference.  For the rest, I’ll stand by Groucho’s advice, “I would never join a club that would have me as a member.”  The law.  Legalism.  The law convicts, the spirit gives life.  It knows when to buy new shoes, or fix your car.  Or your life.  God has all the answers you need, if only you listen.  Honor your father today, walk in his spirit.  For like the rest of you, I never met a law I couldn’t break.  And only Jesus forgives.  In the spirit, gives the term “stop in the name of the law”  a whole new meaning.  Only the spirit knows what works, what doesn’t, and what better be done right now.  Pay me now, or pay me later.  Works in life as well as oil filters.

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

making seeing eyes blind

My friend Steve works for Brother Andrew, Open Doors Ministry.  You may have heard of Brother Andrew, as since 1955 he has been a smuggler of international renown. His main commodity, the gospel.  His main product, Bibles.  From crossing into Communist countries, he has literally smuggled God’s word into every anti-Christian nation in the world.  No word on the US of A yet.  But when visiting his facility, in the middle of an industrial area in Santa Ana, you would never guess the magnitude of his crimes, for the nations he smuggles into would kill him if he got caught, the Bible is contraband, against the law there.  But while touring the warehouse, you enter through the lobby, where a stage set is of a church behind the Iron Curtain, showing a church service, with lookouts and only a page of the Bible, as each member may have a page, so if they get caught , the whole Bible isn’t conviscated.  And a tape is played, a mock raid, so you can see how tough it is to serve Christ there, and how dangerous.  It will give you the creeps, and humble you next time you complain in your air conditioned sanctuary, with over heads and sound.  But when you leave, it really hit me, as there are small windows near the roof, with two mannequins of armed guards, pointing rifles at the church members.  Unnoticed when you entered, they were there the whole time, watching.  Someone is always watching, and it isn’t always God.  Would you dare to attend church services under the penalty of prison or death?  What is it that would make a person risk everything to serve God?

Maybe looking at Acts, and the day of Pentacost, when 3000 came to the Lord.  Peter’s preaching, via the Holy Spirit, and soon we had a new church.  Talk about church building, maybe there is something here Mr. Pastor.  It ain’t programs, procedures, or processes.  Only God will and can add to his church.  But in Acts 2:42 we find the foundation of the early church, and one in which I was immursed in when I first was saved. 

“ And they continued steadfastly in the apostles’ doctrine and fellowship and in breaking of bread and in prayers.”

How simple, yet so effective.  Especially when you consider the facts, there were 3000 new converts, but only one apostle to teach them.  And without the presence of the Holy Spirit, the church would have failed.  Imagine 3000 first graders in the Lord.  And my experience can verify that.  When first saved, the group I hung with lived this passage.  We stood by God’s word, we wanted to read the Bible, were encouraged, and lovingly stood by one another, counseling in love.  We hung around with each other, shared meals together, rode together.  We prayed together, we thoroughly enjoyed the fellowship of each other, rather than that of the world.  Sunday was church, Tuesday night Bible study, Wednesday church, and Saturday night church.  Because we wanted to, we got to as opposed to had to .  And we grew closer to God and each other.  It was as if Jesus was hanging around with us, and was welcomed.  We broke bread, both in eating and communion, doing both in his name as commanded.  And we prayed for each other.  We were not afraid to confess our weaknesses, our sins, or our needs.  Then we would pray, and watch as God answered them.  One night that sticks out was praying for a final bill for a retreat, and we were broke, as usual.  We had prayed the week before, and just before our meeting, a check came in the mail for the exact amount-down to the penny, from someone we didn’t know, but God did.  We were the church, and doing what Acts 2:42 told us, and we were blessed.  And most amazing to me was the fact we all went to different churches, but were one body, one spirit in Christ.  True unity of the spirit, what Br. Andrew must have felt when God gave him the vision.  To blind the vision of the enemy.

But we had become a family, the family of God.  True some made stranger brothers, sisters, or cousins than others, but we learned to look past that and see Jesus.  And I miss that feeling sometimes, as life interferes, but Jesus has never left us.  It is us who turned from him.  And like any family,when one hurt, we hurt with them, and would rejoice also.  We would call one another to see where they were if they missed, because they were missed, and loved.  We reached out to them, as Jesus showed us, just like he did to us.  And we flourished, just like the early church did, with all our troubles and trouble makers.  All based on one simple scripture, perhaps the perfect advice to give to a new believer, or to start a revival in a dying church.  It is all about Jesus....and always will be.  Again...

⁴²They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers. ⁴³Awe came upon everyone, because many wonders and signs were being done by the apostles. ⁴⁴All who believed were together and had all things in common; ⁴⁵they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need. ⁴⁶Day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple, they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, ⁴⁷praising God and having the goodwill of all the people. And day by day the Lord added to their number those who were being saved.

Let that be your prayer today.  Enjoy the fellowship of believers, we are the church.  Don’t miss any blessing God has for you.  For many it is a sentence of death, while carrying a sentence of life.  Let God open your eyes today, and close the eyes of your enemy.  We are called friends by Jesus...that’s good enough for me.  Look up, you never know who’s watching.  What is it about Jesus that makes it all worthwhile?

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

at the car wash

Remember when cars were part of the family?  I mean not just transportation, but were actually part of the family?   When you went to visit Grandpa, you thought of his 1962 Coupe de Ville, and how it had a few touches of his that made it personal.  How Uncle Mose’s Olds was somehow different than the ones he routinely passed when riding with him.  How Nana’s 1967 Buick Skylark reflected her personality, she was a young widow, and just learned to drive in her fifties, and what better than a sporty two door hardtop, with a vinyl roof?  My father always had Ramblers, and once even admitted that the 1956 Buick Special two door hardtop was his favorite car.  Yellow with a white top, it still stands out in my memory today, from Buicks to Ramblers all in one decade.  But these cars were always part of the family, washed on weekends, antifreeze changed in the fall, snow tires mounted after Thanksgiving, and parked in the garage every night before things took over the spot where cars should sit.  The purchase was a project, as you were what you drove, or what your ride projected of you.  Certain days in car pools were dreaded just because of the car you had to ride in, even though it was just a ride, that car was part of someone else’s family, and now you were associated with it.  Maybe a distant cousin not talked about, but now they saw you in the green Rambler that day, and you could lose your cool forever.  Or it might be the one day for the Thunderbird, and they would think  you are cool beyond your means.  Lasting impressions that would later shape your car buying habits, and maybe put your kids in shock or embarrassment. 

As I grew up in the sixties, I saw how what you drove showed where you were in your career.  General Motors had a saying, “ a car for every purse and purpose,” and from Chevy with a 327 4 barrel, next it was that Grand Prix that the girls loved to date in.  Then it was an Oldsmobile, power and prestige, then a Buick, you were much older and respectable, and finally a Cadillac showing you had made it.  You were to be respected, you had made the grade, let all the others follow behind, just not too close.  Ford and Chrysler tried to emulate GM, but they had it down to a science. 

And smaller meant poor, and bigger meant rich.  Longer, lower, wider.  We had no thought of monthly payments back then, we thought they paid cash, and to have the $5500 to buy a Cadillac, that was a lot of lawns mowed at $2 a yard.  Which made me think of my Grandpa as the richest man, and my dad in the Rambler, well we never thought of ourselves as poor.  Maybe thrifty.  And thrifty people washed their own cars, using a whisk broom before my mother’s vacuum quit, and we fixed it and used it on the car.  We scrubbed whitewalls with Brillo pads till our knuckles bled, polished the chrome bumpers until we could see ourselves, and then stand back and be proud of our work, even if it was only a Rambler.  For the rich, or not so thrifty, they went to Towne Car Wash, where you could watch the cars being washed, vacuumed, and for 25 cents a smell like pine sprayed into it.   Someone else would clean the whitewalls, polish the chrome, and dry it off, then hurry to the next car coming off the line.  It was all impersonal, and somehow even the Cadillacs, or new Mustangs didn’t shine quite as nice as the old Rambler.  And someday we looked forward to paying the $1.25 to have someone wash our car, but when the chance came passed, and many a Saturday morning cleaning turned into a Saturday afternoon waxing-it was that personal.  No one got the car clean and shiny like you did.  No one else straightened the maps in the glove box.  No one else checked all the presets on the radio to see if your little sister had changed them-or your dad.  It was a job well done, and driving by you could hear the neighbors thinking “what a clean Rambler,” or “if that Mustang was mine, I’d never let it get that dirty.”  How many could tell “here comes Mr. Mohn in his Cadillac,” because it was shinier than the other black ones.  Or could tell my Nana was young at heart in her Skylark, windows down, and WEEX blaring on the radio.  No talk radio here, and the news was for 700pm at home on TV.  So cars were really part of the family, and maybe treated better than we were.  They were more than transportation, more than a grocery hauler, or a car pool machine.  Even a station wagon painted red told you more about the mom than you might need to know.  And so over the years, I developed this theory, and it tends to be pretty accurate.  You can tell what a person’s life is like based on the condition of their car.  Not necessarily the brand and model, but how they maintain it.  For instance, messy car, candy wrappers, dirty windows with fingerprints, you have a mom under the influence of children, and the kids are winning.  A clean car, without the door panels stuffed with papers, front wheels not stained with brake dust, and windows you can see out of, the person is ordered, and probably has his life under control.  At least his car.  Think of people you know and their cars, see what you think.  Scary, huh?

Think back also to a time when first impressions counted, and you wanted to be good because it reflected on your family.  The last thing you wanted was to embarrass them, to create a bad reputation.  So you behaved, within your years, and wanted to present a good image.  You kept your image clean, but yet like many clean cars, a dirty person was living inside.  The weekly cleansing at church was just not enough, for so much dirt had accumulated during the week you needed more than an hour to clean up.  So you cut corners, and soon the chrome was pitted, and you didn’t feel quite as good about yourself.  And soon neglected the Sunday church as it “didn’t make a difference, anyway,” and soon you fell into disrepair.  I have found that maintenance is expensive, but repairs are even more expensive.  That weekly church visit kept us clean, but nothing would compare with a daily walk with Christ.  Somehow when we spent time every morning with him, the day was better, no matter how bad it could be.  We find our thoughts that were questionable wouldn’t turn to actions that were when we met with Jesus everyday.  We didn’t have to go to church, we are the church, and since Jesus never left us, it must be us that left him.  And a good detailing could bring us back, but without the daily time spent with him, we soon would be in need of expensive repairs again.  And so I have also found clean cars are easier to clean, they don’t attract the same dirt, and have a coating on them to protect the finish.  And we are too.  We have the Holy Spirit covering us, protecting us, but when we neglect him, we are on our own, and all kinds of dirt sticks to us.  Until it builds up so much we need the car wash, the expensive detailing, or a repaint.  Lack of maintenance in cars and lives will soon show.  And everyone else will see it long before we do.  We need Jesus everyday, he’s not just for Sundays anymore.

Clean up your act.  It may take a whole day of spending with him, but it will be worth it.  Pray, read your Bible, and think on him during the day.  Pray at night, then repeat the next day.  And when they see you coming, they will see something different, it will be Jesus.  Or it may be the lack of him.  Either way, you will make an impression.  Maybe go take a quick look in the garage to see how your car looks.  It may tell more about your relationship with Christ than you will care to admit.  Jesus will draw all men unto him.  If some are fleeing you, maybe you need more Jesus.  Cars are still the part of families today, can you say the same of Jesus at your house?  Would Jesus car pool with you?  Maybe it’s time to consider the one on one ride with him.  No one else will ever care for you more.  And soon you can say that he is part of your family, for you will be part of his.  At the car wash....

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

 

bridges

I have a peculiar fascination with bridges.  On one day from Vicksburg to St. Louis we crossed the mighty Mississippi 7 times.  I have been known to ride back and forth over the bridge from Astoria, Oregon to Long Beach,Washington just for the ride.  Bridges intrigue me, as they are architectural designs that take us over chasms, or as the chicken will tell you, to get to the other side.  They are purposeful, can be beautiful, and some are even best seen from underneath, as going over them is not quite as exciting.  Take the New River Bridge in West Virginia, 45 seconds across, or 45 minutes down the winding road to go over the old bridge at the bottom.  Done both, guess which one I remember the most.  The view under is incredible, they even will take you on tours to climb on it!  Some are scary, as riding over the Mackinac Bridge, with one lane closed, being replaced and you can look straight down, the other lane open mesh, looking straight down, slippery and dangerous in the wet on two wheels.  The Bridge of the Gods in Oregon is the same, shaking every time the semi in front of us moved, looking down over 200 feet below....scary but fun.  Maybe the longest bridge, riding to Key West, the many small islands connected by bridges, with no place to turn around.  Some are just old, like the free bridge in Easton over the Delaware, with a view of the new bridge most take.  The most interesting, the Y Bridge in Zanesville, Ohio, forks off in the middle, making the term the fork in the road take on a new meaning.  And yes, we rode it back and forth so we could take both forks in the bridge, I mean road.

My first thoughts when seeing the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge was how bummed the first pioneers must have been, traveling all those miles across the desert, then the mountains, only to be confronted by this gorge that runs for almost 100 miles.  How were they going to get across?  Today the bridge takes few minutes, and back on US 64 and more curves.  We rode the Royal Gorge Bridge before it was closed to car traffic.  I rode across, Theresa walked, feeling safer.  Incase it gave way....I have been across the Golden Gate too many times, yet it always seems a new ride and new beauty.  While a certain walking bridge in Portland, Pennsylvania is always a must stop, the sight of the last covered bridge across the Delaware.  Riding over the Mississippi from Vicksburg, it is interesting to look over at the old bridge, now closed to traffic and wonder.  When is an old bridge obsolete?  Worn out?  No longer needed?  Or just replaced by a newer architectually beautiful bridge like the Port Mann bridge in Vancouver, BC.  Some still there as landmarks, like the Chain of Rocks Bridge.  Some a memory with just trestles remaining.  But each one in its prime was built to carry people or goods across a wide divide.  To get to the other side rather than going around the long way.  Putting ferries out of business.  Some beautiful like the Verranzano Bridge, but pay attention, as it ends suddenly in a tight curve on the Long Island side.  The high concrete walls separating oncoming traffic a stern warning.  Some breath taking like the Coronado Bay Bridge, but to me intriguing because when the bonds were paid off, they cancelled the tolls.  See Congress, it can be done!  So bridges have purpose, but also can be a thing of beauty.  And also a good way to see the US of A!

1Timothy tells us of another bridge, one that enables us to be reunited with God.  When Adam sinned it formed a chasm between man and God, and there was no way to bridge it.  The law couldn’t do it, and God’s desire was to fellowship with us.  But nothing man made could bridge the gap that sin had created, so God sent his son Jesus, to bridge the gap.  To be that connection, to reunite us with God, and for us to fellowship with him.  A bridge unlike any other, that goes only one way, once you are in, you don’t want to go back and travel it again.  Yet we all fall short, and the bridge is open to us 24/7.  Not that we lose the salvation Jesus provided, but sometimes we get off course, we lose our way, and Jesus is the way back for backsliders, too.  A bridge with no toll, it is paid for us, and we can cross over to be with God whenever we want.  Yet some just see the bridge as another route to God, one of many, and neglect to choose it, when it is the only one.  And God has made it so clear in the scriptures, that only the foolish fall prey to lesser ways that end up where they started, and without God.  No relationship, but plenty of religion and legalism to keep them bound, and from finding the freedom only Jesus Christ can provide.  Yet many choose other ways to God, maybe afraid to cross over the chasm for fear of falling, seeking a God who cannot save them, yet trying to save themselves.   Aren’t you glad our God saves?

Riding up Highway 1 you come to the Bixby Bridge, made famous by the old TV show “Then Came Bronson.”  A man who sets out to find himself on a motorcycle, the opening a conversation between him and a man in a station wagon. 

"Hang in there."

Driver: "Taking a trip?"

Bronson: "What's that?"

Driver: "Taking a trip?"

Bronson: "Yeah."

Driver: "Where to?"

Bronson: "Oh, I don't know. Wherever I end up, I guess."

Driver: "Man, I wish I was you."

Bronson: "Really?"

Driver: "Yeah."

Bronson: "Well, hang in there."

From here he heads out to California's State Route 1 and then crosses over the Bixby Creek Bridge.  Sadly too many just hang in there, when they can be rejoicing over there.  For there is a promised land God has promised for those that choose him, who let Jesus bridge the gap sin has created.  How many times have I wished to be Bronson heading out, searching for myself, when Jesus was there all the time.  Only to be told, “just hang in there,” with no reprieve from the hurt and pain being suffered.  When all the time the bridge to God was open and the spirit calling.  If you are on the same trip, the same road, the bridge is open, and calling you today.  Will you make the trip with Jesus?

Once you make the decision, there will be no turning back.. No one who has gone to heaven wants to come back, and no one going to hell can.  Both are one way crossings, and we all face the trip one day.  Rain or shine, old or young, walking or riding, we need to make the trip Jesus provides today.  To look back at where we came from, and be thankful for a merciful God who loved us so much he sent his son to die, so we could have a way.  The Jesus Bridge, not found on any map or tour guide, but one imprinted on the hearts of man.  A bridge ending with God, taking us back to where it all began, before sin entered.  A perfect world, so unlike what Bronson was looking for.  Don’t settle for “wherever I end up,”  settle for no less than God.  Take no other route than the one he offers in Christ, and find the hope and peace we all desire.  Just around the curve, just over the bridge, lies a loving God.  It takes a bridge named Jesus to get there.  Taking a trip....

love with compassion,

Mike

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