Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Suspension Bridge

I live in one of the smallest houses in my neighborhood. It may be the smallest house. It’s old; it’s quaint; it’s home. I live here because I love the location.

I live within walking distance of four Roman Catholic parishes. I live within walking distance of two Roman Catholic colleges, four Roman Catholic elementary schools, two Roman Catholic seminaries, one Roman Catholic high school, and one Roman Catholic convent. I live across the street from one of those colleges. I live in a very Roman Catholic neighborhood. It suits me; I’m Roman Catholic.

And my house is small.

Each morning whether I’m leaving home or coming home, I walk down the narrow path that leads to either my house or to my detached garage. On one side of the path is a wooden fence and on the other is a row of lilac bushes. Each morning when frost isn’t on the ground or my boots needn’t furrow my path, I walk through a web made by diligent spiders who wish to bridge the gap between wood and leaf. Each morning I cleave their cob and each night they rebridge. I never duck. My eyesight robs me of the opportunity to see their scene. So each morning I whisk their web from my face and each night they must face the task to rebuild without mourning.

I think of the diligence of the spiders. Each day they return to their deed. And I wonder why they endure. Yet each night I return to my knees and ask my God to allow me another chance to rebuild our bridge.