bridge bunking: verb- the act of "settling" in or "standing in".. for a thrill of a lifetime
I was eighteen, and he, he was seventeen when I learned the art of bridge bunking. I could not get enough of him, so I was intrigued by almost anything he purposed to me, even bridge bunking. It’s funny how years later he told me he could only handle “small doses” of me and I, I simply could never quite get enough of him.
It was late spring, May of 1992 and we were graduating soon from High School.
He decided it would be fun to educate this small town, “Baptist” girl in the ways of a thrill seeker. For him bridge bunking was the equivalent of drinking coffee to achieve a caffeine rush. He desired to be stimulated. He craved it. I suppose he still does to this day.
It was dark, not pitch black, but dark. I could feel the twinkle of his eyes upon my skin. Yet he didn’t use his fingertips to touch me. He simply pierced into me with his mysterious eyes. I melted, desiring to be touched ever so slightly by the warmth of his hand against mine as we walked towards the tracks. If only his fingers would brush up against mine.
The train tracks captured the light of the moon, guiding us further down the tracks. Sweetness lingered in the air. The scent reminded me of honeysuckle, but perhaps it was the pureness of our youth I sensed.
It was innocent enough, walking that evening in a small town, towards the train track bridge.
We reached the part of the track were the bridge begun, and I recall looking down at the vast abyss below me. I peered down and saw nothing but rocks, big rocks and at least 50 yards between me and the rocks. He wanted me to climb where? He proceeded to descend down the bridge and wanted to settle and sit up under the bridge. To wait. Yet he assisted me and as I took a deep breath, without looking down I joined him. And we waited for the train to come.
Bunking down under the bridge, under the tracks, under the moonlit sky; waiting for the train to come and shoulders slightly touching.
We were silent, you could hear my heart pounding in my chest, or was that his? He spoke softly, he captivated me and lured me in. I was like a fly caught in his mesmerizing web. He whispered, “Thank you for showing me what love is all about.” Those ten words still ring in my heart, even after sixteen years.
Did I show him what love is all about? About sacrifice, about true bridge bunking?
The true bridge bunker is Christ. He is standing, sitting, kneeling in the gap, the chasm between our world and Heaven. Waiting for us, always waiting. He is the Way! John 14:6 He’s still bunking everyday. Every hour, every second between the world and Heaven slightly caressing my hand and yours urging us towards him to connect us with His father, our Heavenly Father.
It was late spring, May of 1992 and we were graduating soon from High School.
He decided it would be fun to educate this small town, “Baptist” girl in the ways of a thrill seeker. For him bridge bunking was the equivalent of drinking coffee to achieve a caffeine rush. He desired to be stimulated. He craved it. I suppose he still does to this day.
It was dark, not pitch black, but dark. I could feel the twinkle of his eyes upon my skin. Yet he didn’t use his fingertips to touch me. He simply pierced into me with his mysterious eyes. I melted, desiring to be touched ever so slightly by the warmth of his hand against mine as we walked towards the tracks. If only his fingers would brush up against mine.
The train tracks captured the light of the moon, guiding us further down the tracks. Sweetness lingered in the air. The scent reminded me of honeysuckle, but perhaps it was the pureness of our youth I sensed.
It was innocent enough, walking that evening in a small town, towards the train track bridge.
We reached the part of the track were the bridge begun, and I recall looking down at the vast abyss below me. I peered down and saw nothing but rocks, big rocks and at least 50 yards between me and the rocks. He wanted me to climb where? He proceeded to descend down the bridge and wanted to settle and sit up under the bridge. To wait. Yet he assisted me and as I took a deep breath, without looking down I joined him. And we waited for the train to come.
Bunking down under the bridge, under the tracks, under the moonlit sky; waiting for the train to come and shoulders slightly touching.
We were silent, you could hear my heart pounding in my chest, or was that his? He spoke softly, he captivated me and lured me in. I was like a fly caught in his mesmerizing web. He whispered, “Thank you for showing me what love is all about.” Those ten words still ring in my heart, even after sixteen years.
Did I show him what love is all about? About sacrifice, about true bridge bunking?
The true bridge bunker is Christ. He is standing, sitting, kneeling in the gap, the chasm between our world and Heaven. Waiting for us, always waiting. He is the Way! John 14:6 He’s still bunking everyday. Every hour, every second between the world and Heaven slightly caressing my hand and yours urging us towards him to connect us with His father, our Heavenly Father.
It's funny, when I was eighteen I could never get enough of my friend. I always wanted more. More time, more talks, more insight, more adventure, more. Christ desires that from you and me. He can never quite get enough of me or you... and how refreshing that thought is. Not only does someone desire to know the inmost desires of my being, but moreso... He's the one who placed those desires in me, and he still has a longing to know me. He wants to be with us, to inhale us. And He wants us to inhale him.
So, as I reminiscence of a high school love affair between me and youthfulness. I ponder if I was an example of Christ's love and sacrifice to my dear friend. Was this a missed opportunity or did I plant the seed? And how many other chances did I have to plant the seed in others, to share with someone about "bridge bunking" the thrill of a lifetime? The "Way" of a lifetime.
Do you have a "bridge bunking" experience? Literally or metaphorically?
2 comments:
Very cool post. I've never been "bridge bunking" before, but it sounds fun. What happened when the train came through? I miss doing fun stuff like that. I like how you draw the story to Christ!
Woohhh.... this was some strong writing, Wim. Love the descriptive language. Miss you gal!
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