There once was a young man driving down the road of life, going too fast and in the wrong direction. People tried to warn him that the bridge ahead was weak and wouldn’t sustain him, but what did they know? They hadn’t been down this road, and even if they had, it was long ago.
Finally one day, he came to the bridge. It looked fine and he charged ahead. The bridge failed under the weight of his speeding car and he plunged into the pit below, falling to the bottom with a mighty crash. When he regained consciousness, a mysterious stranger was helping him out of his car and then helped him to climb out of the pit.
Hurting and broken but wiser, the young man made a decision. He would be the bridge’s last victim. He would honor the man who helped him by keeping people out of the pit. Day after day he positioned himself just up the road from the bridge trying to get people to turn around. He would wave his arms and yell and do what he could to get them to stop. “The Bridge is Out!” He cried. Some looked at him as if he was crazy. Some gave him the finger. One stopped and said, “Who are you to tell me what to do? Who gave you the authority? Who are you to tell me to turn around?” Everyone who passed him felt totally justified as they plummeted off the cliff.
Most of the time it felt like thankless work, but the residual pain of his own injuries and the memory of the mysterious stranger compelled him to continue. Occasionally someone turned around and that made it all worthwhile.
How do I know this? I am that man.