Don't get me wrong. I love rivers, the Appomattox in particular. I love walking behind the tobacco warehouses in Farmville to watch leaves float along. I love swimming in it, when the water is deep enough, which- even then- mostly involves standing waist deep or sitting in the shallows. I love sitting and talking to friends, a lunch time campfire blazing and our feet in the water, while children splash each other downstream.

But, it is amazing how inconvenient rivers can be, and how often the Appomattox can get in my way, especially when I'm in my car. It snakes and curls where it doesn't belong. There are days when the Appomattox is barely a river at all, more like a creek in a glorified ditch. Yet, it is the dividing line between Cumberland and both Prince Edward and Amelia counties and nothing but trouble. There is one bridge each between Cumberland and those two other counties. During my more impatient days, I feel there should be at least ten. What should be any easy trip, as the crow flies, can become excessively complicated.

This doesn't seem to bother anyone else until the Appomattox decides to show its true power and overflow its banks. I clearly remember one Sunday morning when I was a child. My family had driven to Farmville and only needed to go a few more miles up 45 to go to church: a five-minute drive, tops. But, the river was flooded. We couldn't use the one and only bridge that connects Prince Edward and Cumberland. I remember looking down from the tobacco warehouses at the lake that was now the Appomattox, surprisingly calm in its exaltation. It took us an extra 45 minutes to get to church that Sunday via a roundabout trip through Buckingham.

And, let's not even talk about the next bridge down river. The bridge on Stony Point Road is a one-lane metal affair that looks like the world forgot existed. It is short and squat and doesn't seem unsafe, just very old and solid. It ain't going nowhere. The banks of the river are fairly high there, so the bridge is short and the high truss seems like overkill in comparison to the long sleek arch that the Farmville bridge makes. Either way, you have to drive on quite a bit of dirt road on either side and quite a bit of rambling country road before that. There is no cell coverage.

I understand the Appomattox is important, bringing water and life to the land. I understand that it was not planned out by a commission to best suit the needs of the modern commuter. Instead, it has lazily chosen its route along the path of least resistance and low ground. Yet, I somehow feel I deserve to cross the river wherever I want to. That wouldn't be that hard in regard to the Appomattox, except I also happen to believe I should be able to cross it with my car.

But, that expectation is yet to be met. The river has not parted as my front tires touch the water. A force field doesn't rise up before me, forming an arch that would support my car's weight. And, lord knows that even if I kept an ample supply of building materials in my trunk, my boldest dreams of a bridge would be failed by my engineering and construction skills.

I often expect that overcoming life's difficulties should be easy too. But much like finding a crossing for the piddly Appomattox, it proves just as rare and complicated. I expect to part waters of fear and doubt that have cut paths through my life for years with a quick prayer. I expect that with knowledge of the right technology or techniques, a force field solution will rise up to carry me across. Or that simply with enough time and effort, I can overcome anything.

It is true that those things sometimes work for me. A quick prayer or planning brings a solution, parts the waters, builds a bridge over smaller, newer rivers.

More often though, I find myself attempting those things, but mostly just driving further downstream until I find someone else's crossing. And, I don't think there is anything wrong with that. It may feel like defeat, to not be able to cross when and where I want. But, it also takes a lot of pride to claim that I should be able to master the river, those old troubles, that completely. And that much pride and hubris is in some ways a worse defeat.

Rather, I've found that crossing is not something that can be done alone. I have to travel along the river edge in frustration, going hours out of my way, until I find a bridge, a place where someone has gone before. Maybe that other person made it across themselves with the brute force of their independent faith or long hours of hard work, but what they've left behind is a way for those that come after them.

So often, I find myself struggling along on my own to get over some flooded river that has been messing up my plans for months. Then, one day, I finally allow myself to share my frustration with a friend. And, lo and behold, they have traveled along the same river and found a bridge, a way across. They are able to point the way, ease the journey, provide passage. As they tell me about the crossing, suddenly the way seems so clear and obvious. I wonder why I wasn't able to find it on my own.

This doesn't happen often, but it happens, and it is the only way I have found to cross exceptionally big rivers. The bridges across those pesky rivers aren't always pretty or new. Sometimes they are just old and squat and sturdy. And they have nothing to do with me manufacturing more faith or working harder. Rather, waiting and wandering downstream to find those bridges takes true faith and the really hard work of letting down my sense of independence and pride, sharing with those around me my frustration and allowing them to combine their effort and faith with mine as we work together to cross the river.