by Rita Klundt

A short, narrow bridge somewhere between Princeton, Kentucky, where Grandma lived, and the little town of Cadiz, where one of my aunts lived, is the subject of an often told story at family reunions.

Every time Grandma traveled over that bridge she repeated a story from her seat behind the driver. “A car full of teenagers had been drinking and they must have been going 90 miles an hour when they went over that bridge. The impact killed them all. That shiny piece of guardrail is where they had to put a new section on the bridge.”

Without fail, word for word, we heard the story. Our cousins heard the same story whenever Grandma was riding with them.

Twenty years after Grandma’s funeral, I was in the car with my cousin, Barry, and his wife, Kim. As we approached the bridge, Barry was the first to think of Grandma.

“This is the bridge Grandma used to always talk about. She would always say, ‘A car full of teenagers had been drinking and they must have been going 90 miles an hour when they went over that bridge. The impact killed them all. That shiny piece of guardrail is where they had to put a new section on the bridge.’ She told the same story, word for word, every time we crossed this bridge. We [referring to him and his two brothers] used to do a count down with our fingers. Whoever got closest to zero when she started the story was the winner.”

We all smiled at the memory of Grandma, but Kim was the first to notice the irony. “Barry, our kids do a countdown every time you approach the bridge.”

“No way.”

“Yes way. They were with me the last time I crossed here. I couldn’t help it. I had to remind them about how, every time we cross this bridge, you tell us about how every time your grandma crossed this bridge, she told you about the car full of teenagers who’d been drinking and must have been going 90 miles an hour over the bridge. Our kids interrupted me with a countdown of their own.”

It doesn’t need to be the short narrow bridge between Princeton and Cadiz for me to smile for a memory of my mother’s mother. Any bridge will do. I think of Grandma and look at the speedometer nearly every time I cross a bridge. If a low guardrail is involved, I reduce my speed, check the mirrors more frequently, and am sure to have both hands on the steering wheel. Depending on the height of the bridge and the depth of the water below, my knuckles turn a different shade of white.

Mere repetition does more than seal a permanent memory. It changes us and changes the people around us. I don’t repeat what Grandma said to every passenger who happens to be in the car when we’re on a bridge, but if there is a conversation in progress or a good song on the radio, I might not be able to listen. Grandma’s voice overpowers everything for the time it takes to cross the bridge.

I’ve been crossing a lot of white knuckle bridges lately, not the kind with painted yellow lines and guardrails, but the kind of bridges that get me from a comfortable past into unknown, and possibly unfavorable, territory. Somedays, I’d like to make a U-turn, avoid the bridge, and head in a new direction. Jonah tried that. He ended up crossing the “bridge” anyway—after a few days detour in the belly of a big fish.

So I’m using mere repetition to my advantage. I’ve got a bookmark at Proverbs 3. There is some good stuff in that chapter. I already memorized the fifth verse ages ago, but for the next forty days I’m going to read it, repeat it aloud, and meditate on it daily. I plan to read all 35 short verses in the chapter every morning as part of my quiet time. Repeating and meditating on the same passage of scripture for a length of time isn’t an idea original to me. I’m finally following up on some advice offered to me several years ago.

If Grandma’s words come to my mind after decades of not hearing her voice, and give me cause for caution, how much more can God’s Word do for me when I read and meditate on it daily?

“So shall My word be that goes forth from My mouth; It shall not return to Me void, But it shall accomplish what I please, And it shall prosper in the thing for which I sent it.” Isaiah 55:11(NKJV)