Crossing the Bridge

Many of my blog posts talk about journeys as a metaphor for sexual growth. I’ve often written about climbing a hill, trying to stay on a trail and not fall backward.

I used to live in an area with many glacial hills, and the landscape shaped my metaphors.

Now I live in an area with no hills at all. Instead, there are vast expanses of land to traverse. And I’ve been thinking a bit differently about what it means to be on a journey.

Crossing Creeks

There’s a river not too far away, and when I travel to the small city where I do my shopping and medical stuff, I cross quite a few of the creeks that feed into that river.

If I’m reading my map correctly, I cross creeks six times on my way to town. I drive over six bridges, yet only one of them looks enough like a bridge that I’m aware of it. Most of the time I’ll notice that the rows in the field suddenly stop, and then I realize that I just crossed over a creek. When there is flooding, of course, I become much more aware of all the waterways.

Marriage gives us lots of those small creeks that barely register. We move from one place in marriage to another in a way that just requires a larger-than-usual step. We move from one home in the community to another one across town. One spouse changes work schedules, and the other one has to take on the responsibility for getting the kids dressed in the morning. You decide to try a new way of eating, and you end up cooking together instead of taking turns.

Small changes are just blips. You might notice that something is different, but the process of getting there barely registered with you.

Crossing Rivers

Other marriage changes are more like crossing rivers.

When you see that bridge ahead, there is no doubt that you’re moving from one place to another.

Some bridges seem like a whole lot of structure just to cross one lazily slow river.

But rivers changes with the seasons and weather. Heavy rains can lead to high waters that flow against the bridge’s support. The river water may get so high that it washes over the bridge and prevents anyone from crossing.

Marriage is like that sometimes, too.

Some moments are memorable because there is such a stark contract between the before and after of that moment. A child is born. A sin is confessed. A loved one is lost. A vulnerability is shared.

We see the bridge coming, and we have no doubt that something is about to change.

We know we have to cross that bridge, and once we’re on the other side, we will no longer be where we were before.

Fear of Bridges

Let’s face it—some bridges seem a bit more risky or anxiety-producing than others.

As someone with gephyrophobia (today I learned that there is an actual name for a fear of bridges), crossing a bridge can be terrifying.

The small nearby city has several swinging bridges. These are all foot bridges supported by cables. When I moved here, I heard people talk about how much fun they had as kids running and jumping on the bridges so they could feel them sway.

I thought this sounded absolutely dreadful.

Early this summer, I drove my father-in-law to town so he could get a haircut. We didn’t know he needed an appointment, and we ended up with several hours to kill.

I drove us to one of the city’s parks where we could sit and watch the river.

We sat on a bench for a while, and then I noticed one of those bridges. My father-in-law said he hadn’t been on one for years because my late mother-in-law was so afraid of heights.

He wanted to walk across it.

And he wanted me to go with him.

He’s an elderly man who struggles with balance. It really wasn’t a good idea for him to walk across by himself. I thought about how he was having a good day amid the many not-so-good days. I wondered if he would ever have another change to walk on one of these bridges.

So I stood up and walked toward the bridge with him, thinking that I could stand at one end of the bridge while watching him walk across.

As we got to one end of the bridge, he motioned for me to go ahead of him—just as he always does. “Ladies first,” he said. “And don’t worry. You won’t actually feel it move.”

Somehow, I did it. I took small steps, close to the side of the bridge so I would have more support if a board gave way. I kept two hands on the side rail at all times. I kept moving and took lots and lots of deep breaths. And I did too feel the bridge move.

I made it all the way to the other side, and then turn around and went back. About ten feet from the end, I ran, anxious to be back on solid ground. I told myself I would never do that again.

Facing the Fear

The next week I went back to the park to walk along the river. The bridge had a lot of activity. Lots of families were walking and biking across.

And I thought to myself, I was terrified last time, but I did it. Maybe I can do it again by myself.

I walked to the end of the bridge. I took a deep breath. I took a step toward the bridge—and then I turned around and walked very quickly back to my car to drive away.

The bridge won that day.

But then a few days later, I went back to try again.

I felt an urge to face that fear. I acted “as if”—as if I were a person not afraid of bridges, as if I believed the bridge was safe, as if I was someone who thought it would be pleasant to cross the bridge.

I hesitated a great deal. I did a lot of self-talk, reminding myself of the truths that many people actually seem to enjoy crossing the bridge, that I hadn’t seen anyone fall off, that the river was shallow so even if I broke my legs falling off the bridge at least I wouldn’t drown, and that I had already crossed the bridge successfully once before.

Holding onto the railings and took small steps. Although I walked with trepidation, with each step, I tested the truth and found it solid. The fact that I had already survived the crossing before reduced my fear just enough that I could keep going.

My guiding principles were to not look down and not look back. I thought of Wile E. Coyote and all the times he ran off the cliff but was fine until he realized where he was. That was always when he plummeted to the ground.

That day, the bridge didn’t win. I did. I successfully crossed it to the other side and back.

Facing Another Fear

Working on sex felt like one of those bridges across a raging river to me.

With sex, I was afraid that I would step wrong and fall off the bridge into a raging river that would sweep me away. I was afraid I would lose myself if I tried to cross that bridge.

So often I would approach the journey across the raging river of sex, only to turn tail and run back the way I’d come.

After approaching the bridge many times, I I felt an urge to face my fear and finally took a step forward.

I acted “as if”—as if I were a woman not afraid to work on sex, as if I believed it would be okay, as if I really wanted to cross the bridge.

I did lots of self-talk, reminding myself over and over of the truths I had been learning about God’s design for sex in marriage and about my own sexuality. I reminded myself that I’d enjoyed sex before. Those truths helped push out the lies I’d believed for so long.

Many small steps—one after another after another—propelled me along slowly, as I kept going with trepidation. With each step, I tested the truth and found it solid enough that I could keep going.

I kept facing forward for many months, afraid that if I looked back to celebrate how far I’d come, I would panic and turn around and run back.

That time, my fear of working on sex didn’t win. I did. And my marriage did.

I crossed that bridge, and once I was on the other side, I knew I was no longer where I’d been before.

What About Your Journey?

This new terrain where I live has given me new ways to think about this sexual journey I’m on.

Look around you, right where you are. What kinds of journeys do you take to get anywhere? And what does that journey suggest to you about the journey you are on with sex in your marriage?

Image credit | Chris Taylor