Golden sunset haze in the dust from the cotton gin blinded me this evening. The two new bridges on the northbound side of the highway are fully open today, with the regiments of orange-and-white cones finally having retreated, leaving smooth fresh pavement behind them. Last week, the boy began walking on crutches.
In the wake of that last bit of news, the boy’s brother shared this verse: “And he who was sitting on the throne said, ‘Behold, I am making all things new'” (Rev. 21.5).
Making things new. I’ve been thinking about that for a week now, how it is not an instantaneous result, how it begins with breaking, how it is neither convenient nor comfortable.
The new-making of the bridges took over a year, and began with their removal. Northbound traffic was corralled into half of the southbound side of the highway, and the old bridges disappeared, making way for new concrete posts pounded by a huge weight suspended from a crane. I followed the process in glimpses caught while driving to school and back: the huge beams between the posts, the network of re-bar welded by men in hard-hats crawling out among the beams, cages made for concrete to be poured and spread and smoothed, and then the road — scraped away at the beginning of the project — built back to the level of the bridges, with layers of gravel and asphalt under the smoke and stench of the materials and machinery.
I drove past all that mess on the way to the waiting room that day. So many of us waited there, snatching at any rumors from the room where doctors tended the broken boy, comforting one another in hushed voices with the fact that they couldn’t know anything conclusive until the swelling went down, but wishing all the same to hear something conclusive, preparing ourselves stoically to never see him stand again, but praying madly that we would.
We’ve seen him stand. And I am persuaded that the working of his legs is only one of many things being made new in this process.
He who sits on the throne is making all things new.
Sometimes He grants glimpses of that. But such is His glory that even the dust of His doings overpowers our small sight. And I don’t mind.
©2015 by Stacy Nott