In Northampton, Massachusetts, stands the old cemetery where David Brainerd is buried. Brainerd, a pioneer American missionary, died in 1747 at the age of twenty-nine after suffering from tuberculosis. His grave is beside that of Jerusha Edwards, the daughter of Jonathan Edwards, a Puritan theologian of that day. Brainerd loved Jerusha and they were engaged to be married, but he did not live until the wedding.

Imagine what hopes, dreams, and expectations for the cause of Christ were buried in that grave with the witherred body of that young missionary. At that point, nothing remained but memories and several dozen Indian converts! Yet, Jonathan Edwards, that majestic old Puritan saint, who had hoped to call Brainerd his son, began to write the story of that short life in a little book. The book took wings and few across the sea, and landed on the desk of a Cambridge student by the name of Henry Martyn.

Poor Henry Martyn! In spite of his education, brilliance, and great opportunities, he--after reading that little book on the life of Brainerd--threw his own life away! Afterward, what had he accomplished once he set his course toward home from India in 1812? With his health then broken, he dragged himself as far north as the town of Tokat, Turkey, near the Black Sea. There he lay in the shade of a pile of saddles, to cool his burning fever, and died alone at the age of thirty-one.

What was the purpose behind these "wasted lives?"  From the grave of a young David Brainerd, and the lonely grave of Henry Martyn near the shores of the Black Sea, have arisen a mighty army of modern Missionaries. (Leonard Woolsey Bacon)

"Is there some desert, or some boundless sea,
Where You, great God of angels, will send me?
Some oak for me to rend,
Some sod for me to break,

They were broken. And dirty. And gross. And I was lent grace enough to be with them.

There were feces on the sidewalk and urine puddles rinsing our sandals. It was drug-infested and prostitute-infected—all in my own backyard.

I was with two ex-Tweakers* yesterday, ripe with memories of addiction’s hellish hits. Andy is six months into recovery and convinced, “This is the time, because finally I’m the one who wants it, not God, or someone else, wanting it for me.” Nancy is an educated woman of lucrative background. She shared fond memories of living on a farm and “breathing the airs of freshness” (I loved that “air” was plural to her…as if too robust for a singular concept).

As I’ve pondered these stories, the idea of “bridge” is where I keep returning. In more obvious ways, their lives bridged a connectivity into the heart of brokenness. But in less obviously ones, they bridged a connectivity in my own brokenness—not as much in the hurting sense, but in the sense that I’ve felt less connected to wholeness since leaving their sides. Something about our interaction was a bridge to each other—to each other’s brokenness--and that connection built something whole.

Can it be quantified this simply though? Life—as a web of bridges—connecting us—or me—or me to us—all back to Thee? Could it be—not to fix, or force, or finalize a given end—but just to bridge, and be bridged, and be with the bridging gaps?

I was broken. And dirty. And gross. And you lent grace enough to be with me.