When I left you I was about to detail an incident that happened to my family in 1953. We were taking the ferry across a four mile stretch of the Bay (the Bay is as narrow as 2.5, up north, and as wide as 35 miles, near where it empties into the Atlantic). Crossing the Bay was an annual ritual for us. It meant we were going 'down-home', as we called it; returning to Deal's Island, Somerset County - a truly heavenly spot.
Everything was packed. There was a Summer's worth of clothes, for nine children. Momma had prepared lots of food (in those days there were few places to stop along the road, and the places that did exist were often not welcoming to us). No matter, mom's food tasted better, anyway; and we missed nothing in the 'eats department'.
In addition to suitcases, we brought along lots of bags: duffle bangs, clothes bangs, shoe bags; and plastic bags - large ones. There were the diaper bags, and all sorts of provisions for the two 'babies'. And yes, there was the seemingly obligatory greasy shopping bag - or two - full of delicious delectable chicken; fried crispy, thank you.
To a kid like me, it seemed like a lot of stuff. It really wasn't, though; and, anyhow, most of what we'd need and use already awaited us, when we finally got to our Summer house on the, 'Ilte'.
Excited as we were, we finally settled down. The ferry boat was about to leave the dock. In about an hour or so we'd land on the Eastern Shore of the Bay. Then it was a short bus ride from dockside to Princess Anne. We'd be met there by a relative, and driven the rest of the way 'home'. The conveyance, usually a pick up truck, would serve just fine (uncle Elsie's trucks especially were favorites - his always had these neat green canvas coverings; to keep the Sun and rain out). Our father was with us on this trip, which was unusual. (Usually dad would stay in Baltimore, working - he certainly couldn't afford to take the whole Summer off - he'd come down on weekends).
All was good; we were on our way, making good another crossing of the Bay.
Snap! Damn-it. Somehow the chains around the bus axles had come undone. How? Who knows. All we knew was the bus started slowly sliding off the ferry. People panicked, instant screaming, shouting, rushing, people trying to get off the creeping bus.
Here's my point, what happens when your crossings - in your work, in your love life, in your spiritual life - get snapped, get interrupted? What do you do? Who, what, do you turn to? This is where HIS word, HIS action words become the bridge, to see you across.
Bring your Bible.
Postscript: My little story ends well.
Our father rather calmly pushed up to the front of the bus, passed the scared, panic struck passengers. He jumped into the driver's seat, then firmly, expertly, applied the bus's emergency brakes. The bus stopped moving, by now it was about a foot from the ferry's edge. Everybody scurried off relieved, saved.
Daddy was a hero, again; something we kids already knew.
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