When I was nine years old, the church my family attended – Grassy Creek Methodist Church in Elkin, North Carolina – formed a Boy Scout Troop – Troop 224.
At the time the troop was formed, my brother Seth was thirteen years old. The minimum age to become a Scout was eleven. However, because I was the only male youth between eleven and birth in the church membership who was interested in scouting; and because my brother was in the troop; and because my father was a prominent member of both the church and the Scouting Committee, it was decided that I would be approved to attend the troop meetings and campouts, if Seth would "watch out for me."
Sometime, within the first year of the troop's existence, a camping trip was held. I do not remember where the campsite was other than that it was in a deep forest in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Situated not too far from our tents was a stream about fifty feet wide. This stream cut a deep gorge which was crossed by a footbridge consisting of a flat board ten to twelve inches wide with no handrails. Just before going under the footbridge, the creek took a wild tumble down a waterfall – covering the crossing with icy spray.
On the first day of the campout, it became a ritual for the Scouts to dash headlong over the footbridge. I would stand spellbound watching these acts of unsurpassed bravery, and even though I longed to join in the fun, my terror of the possibility of falling from the narrow bridge trumped my lust for danger.
On the morning of the second day, the Scoutmaster announced there would be a hike. The excitement swelled within me until Seth told me that I must remain in camp. The hike would require crossing the footbridge and he knew my fear of doing that.
"I don't want my baby brother chickening out in front of my friends. I'd have to bring you back to camp and all the guys would ride me the rest of the campout."
The thought of being left behind, and thereby being considered even more of a "baby" than the troop now thought me, was more than I could stand, and so, after much begging, fussing and promising on my part, Seth agreed I could tag along.
As we approached the footbridge, Seth and I were in the rear of the column. Each boy, having made the crossing, would make a wild sprint down the trail and around a bend, disappearing from view, their happy voices trailing after them. Caught up in the excitement of the chase, Seth was soon gone from my sight and I found myself alone on the forward approaches of the bridge.
Gingerly, I stepped onto the plank. With sickening slowness, I would make one small step with my left foot and drag my right up along side. This tedious march continued until I found myself midway on the bridge. The laughter and shouts of my companions slithered down the trail until I found myself engulfed only in the sound of the rushing waterfall.
Seized by fright, I slowly eased my body downward until I was on my hands and knees. My arms trembled as they grasped the wet board and I gazed forward, my glasses covered with mist and my eyes filling with tears.
With elbows locked and dampness soaking through the knees of my blue jeans. I could not force myself to go forward. Neither could I find the ability to move backward. I seemed destined to spend the remainder of my life – which now seemed to me to be very short – in the middle of that footbridge.
I began to wonder what would happen when I died. Would I fall off the bridge or just collapse onto the soaked board where I was? Fear seemed my only sure companion and panic quickly besieged me.
Suddenly I heard it: At the time the most wonderful sound imaginable. A gentle sound – not filled with anger or frustration. A calm, reassuring sound which seemed to understand my predicament and offer consolation -- the soft sound of my brother's voice.
Seth had come back to help me and immediately at his appearing, all fear departed. Taking my hand, he helped me across that bridge and out of that fearful situation.
Nothing else of that camping trip comes to my mind these fifty-three years later, but I will never forget my brother's being there to help me when I was alone and totally paralyzed by fear.
Someday – it may be soon, it may be many years, I have no way of knowing – but someday I will find myself having to cross another bridge. That crossing, I have no doubt, will be just as frightening as when I was nine. Again I will be frozen by terror in the middle – not knowing how, or if, I can go on. I know I will feel all alone with no companions visible before or aft.
And there is something else I know: when I have done all that I can do, when all seems lost and the icy fingers of death reach out for me, my elder brother, Jesus Christ, will be there to take my hand and help me home.
