A one-mile-long muddy bridge. Our only way across the deep river, a four-wheel drive truck owned by the missionaries we were traveling with. Somewhere in a jungle in Southeast Asia is where we were. A place where the mist and rain meant every piece of clothing would either be sticky with sweat or sticking to your skin.

Crossing the river meant traversing a muddy bridge, like three or four feet thick with wet earth. Our Land Rover was built for the task, ready to move atop the concrete underneath. Tarico, the driver, knew the bridge and the river. The guardrails were maybe six inches high, if that. He knew the bridge. Knew the roads. If anyone could make it across, it was Tarico.

We didn’t know anything about the bridge, trusting our guide, who, even now, seemed a little hesitant to cross. But after he crossed himself, good Catholic that he was, we were ready to go.

The whole reason for the trip was to help the local church on the other side with their landscaping. And in the jungle, it meant every few months of clearing debris from torrents of rain, overgrown ivy plants, and other types of vegetation growing faster than the summer grass did in Missouri.

Our team — Joel, their local pastor and my personal friend, plus Tarico, myself, and one other American — found ourselves seated in the Land Rover, four of us praying to make it across the slick bridge. The tires started slipping even after a few feet. Tarico uttered prayers in his mother tongue, white-knuckled, strangling the wheel like Homer Simpson does to Bart. His utterances turned to shouts as he yanked the wheel left, then right, the truck sliding right off the edge of the bridge.

The back wheels slid off first. I felt the big bump of the tires clearing the guardrails. I’m not sure how far it was to the river, but it looked like a long way down. Bridges always freaked me out. Now I was petrified. The drop was long, Tarico praying, Joel too — out loud — for a miracle.

And the Land Rover? It moved.

It’s the best explanation I have.

It shifted. But it was just enough, hovering over a stretch of the river with water so clear we could see how deep it really was. On the count of three, all four of us threw open the doors, jumping away from the falling vehicle, praying we would survive the crash into the water below.

This must be what it’s like for cliff divers, hitting the water from that height. It took the breath clean out of me. Exhilarating. Terrifying. All in an instant. Then we all surfaced, almost at the same time.

And a few feet away from us, the SUV landed. Right side up. On its wheels. Every tire flattened with the impact. But the frame — the pastor’s mechanic would later tell us — was fine. In fact, it was perfect. Other than the tires? The truck was fine.

There’s one more thing you need to know about this dream. In the clearest, coldest river water, treading and making our way to shore, shadows moved above and around us. Dark shapes. Flying in places where no shadows belonged. Watching. Waiting. Never getting a chance for whatever they were up to.

I woke up just as my hands touched the shoreline.

Psalm 23. I recited it over and over in my head, the same way you reach for a handrail. And I remembered this:

“So why would I fear the future? For your goodness and love pursue me all the days of my life.” (Psalm 23:6, TPT)

That verse stayed with me, rolling around in my head.

But this dream didn’t start at the bridge. It started with a voice.

God spoke, specifically to me. His voice, full of power and authority — and somehow, in the same breath, full of grace and love. He was sad. He asked me to come back to him.

I could do nothing except cry. I kept saying I’m sorry. Over and over. And somewhere in the middle of that, a reminder arrived — softer, the way impressions come — that he is always with you, always cares for you, and will always help you when you need it.

Then the bridge happened.

Go back and read that verse again, now. Goodness and love pursue me. Pursue. The voice came first — before the crossing, before the fall, before the prayer in midair. Before I ever reached the bridge, something was already moving toward me. The pursuit was underway. I was still standing in the mud, saying “I’m sorry” into the darkness.

But the tires. I keep coming back to the tires. Every one of them. Flattened. The frame? Untouched.

The shadows only watched, unable to come any closer. Whatever they were waiting for? It never came.

I’ve had seasons that feel like that bridge. Crossed on confidence. Gone over an edge I never saw. Prayed on the way down. The tires were shot. But the frame? It held together.

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What’s taken the hit for you lately — and what’s still holding?