The Bridge

She stood on the footbridge, contemplating the river below as it churned and dashed against the rocks. Light bubbles floated to the surface. Water sprayed her face. She closed her eyes and listened to the birds in the distance.

The trees surrounding the bridge gloomed. Although a dark forest green, they felt dark and ominous, pulling her most primitive fears. But here, on the bridge, she felt safe.

Years before, a long time in the spring of her life, her parents had named her "Deborah." It was a good solid bible name. It was a name to be proud of .. her parents would say. They would look fondly at her, knowing she would "keep the faith."

Each year, following her birth, she tried her best to follow in her parents' footsteps. She would try her hardest to carry on her ancestors unique calling of taking the "truth" to the world. The world, she was taught, was a corrupt place and the earth groaned under its dark weight. Her role in this life was to lift this dark burden.

Now, in her late summer years, she was disturbed by her earlier beliefs. She had testified, she had acknowledged, and she had followed. Was it wrong? Had she buried her soul under untruths? She had given so much for this calling. Had she given up her opportunities in vain?

She opened her eyes. The sun fell full on the forest, lighting up the dark shadows under tall fir trees. Soon the cold would come, the leaves would fall, and she would be gray and still.


Weekly Anamnesis