The bridge is love
The floor quavered as I was writing this. I had hoped that the aftershocks were over — as of last count close to three thousand since the big earthquake ten days ago.
The earth rocked at midnight, but only in the manner of the cradle. In fact, when I called her attention, instead of being scared, the wife seemed lulled into a deeper and a wider sleep, and I thought I heard a soft guttural sound, which could be the prelude to a snore.
At breakfast, when we talked about it, we sort of agreed that, while it still came as a surprise, the midnight tremor, judging from its gentle rather than threatening motion, could be the last, and that the ground was finally resting like a coin at the end of its spin. But at midmorning, in this coffee shop, when I was set to begin this piece, the floor jerked a tad too long. I felt that, if it went on for one more second, I should initiate exit plans.
How humbling these past several days have been. The earthquake that split roads and farms, and cut off bridges, and swallowed homes and lives, and turned ancient churches into dust, was just the opening number, and we thought the finale as well, because nothing more devastating could have come after that, not for another one hundred years. But a series of aftershocks followed, many of them vicious, and more than a few were full earthquakes in their own right. The courthouse where I worked, a large concrete building, cracked beyond repair, its supports fractured, those of the walls that remain standing had splits that looked like spiders. A red notice posted at the entrance alerts the public to the touch-and-go condition of the building and denies access to one and all.
But early this morning, just two hours before the aftershock, I managed to slip inside and gingerly climbed up the stairs to my office. Two of my staff were there, slipping the case records into sacks. As I passed by, I commended them for their courage and resourcefulness.
It was the first time that I saw my office since the earthquake. It did not look too scarred considering that the upper floors were a shambles and most of the other rooms a wreck. Some of my trophies had lost their heads (sic transit gloria mundi). The little statue of St. Michael, which I had installed atop the computer to drive away the Satanic viruses (and verses), had disappeared. Except for this and the records lying spread-eagled on the floor, it was still the same room where I had labored for twelve years. Quickly I gathered my papers (those I would need for my retirement) and carried them, together with a cellphone charger, a nail clipper and a book of poems (mine), out of the building.
All this makes me reflect on human pride, and remember an old Cebuano song:
Pagkagarboso niadtong bukira
Nga sa panganod buot makig-indig
Nagpangatipak ug nangatumpag
Kay buot motipon sa yutang patag
(How proud was that mountain
Competing with the sky
And breaking apart
To join the lowlands)
How uncanny that the writer of the song should use a mountain as a metaphor for pride, and — because of recent geologic events — how prescient of him. Of course, on a wider level the mountain includes every other human monument and achievement, which a powerful hand can topple in an instant.
Our present condition does not much differ from years ago, when a bridge near our home split in two places. Because there was no other way, and everyone else was doing it, and I was on a pressing errand for my family, I walked on the portion between the cracks with bated breath, knowing that at any time that part would fall (it did three hours later). All the while, in all humility, I acknowledged my utter dependence upon God, addressing him with these words from Psalm 56:3 — “When I am afraid, I put my trust in thee.” And, yes, He protected me. Thinking of it now, as of our present perils, I am drawn to that uncertain portion between cracks. What name should I give it? For what could I use it as metaphor? Because it reminded me of God, and I was there to serve the needs of the people in my care, there is no answer I can think of, except love.
