She took my hand first. I remember it like it was yesterday. Thinking I had prepared myself, I ordered some cute but functional (or so I thought) rain boots off Amazon. And I was still slipping and sliding, occasionally landing on my bottom.

It was the very first day we hiked into the village, a scouting trip to do a survey of the raging river we had heard so much about and take in a view of our soon to be honeymoon site. A rescheduled heli flight, landing in the wrong village, and a treacherous hour long hike, a near vertical descent through the most remote part of the Panamanian jungle and there I was, the one who came to help, completely unable to get myself down that mountain and to the riverbed. An elderly Ngäbe woman, at least 80 but without a single grey hair, rushed up from behind me and, without saying a word, took my hand. Tightly, palm squeezed. She steadied me, giggling each time I nearly stumbled. She got me to the bottom.

Months later, on the day Ember Bridge One opened over the Cricamola, there she was again, standing at the edge. Nervous. Looking down at the whitewater rapids that had taken so many from her village, unsure about stepping out onto something she had never trusted her weight to before. So I took her hand, the same way she took mine, and we crossed together.

The one who held me became the one I held. That is a bridge.

I came into that village as the sent one. Sent by God, sent by every person who gave toward a bridge they would never get to see. And on that first day, it was her hand that sent me safely down the mountain. Now, at the edge of the river, I was the sender. Step by step, fingers intertwined, I walked her out over the water that had taken so much from her, until her feet found the other side.

The sent became the sender.

When you strip it down, a bridge is almost nothing. Two sides of something that was never meant to be crossed, something anchored deep on each bank, cables pulled tight across the gap, and a walkway hung from them. That's it. But I have watched what it costs to build one. Six months of my husband's energy and attention. Our time away from our family. And physically, 400 bags of cement, ninety pounds each, 1,000 pound steel cables, tools, nails, and screws, all carried eighteen miles over the mountain, with the elders leading and the men following behind them. Children hauling stones up from the riverbank. Women sifting sand and keeping the pot of rice and café going so the crews could keep going. And most of it ends up buried in foundations no one will ever see again.

All of that, for a walkway of wood planks over water. Because on the other side is the school. The clinic. The church. Each other.

My husband Joe just wrote a book. Years of Navy leadership, and now two bridges on the Cricamola, poured into twelve chapters about the greatest leader who ever lived, Jesus. I have been sitting with my copy this week, writing in it, highlighting, taking notes, in awe of the words on the page and of his brilliance. In it he says a bridge "exists for exactly one purpose: to connect people to what was unreachable." And then he says the line I can't stop thinking about: "The bridge does not exist to be a bridge. It exists for its live load: the mother crossing to the clinic, the student crossing to school, the congregation crossing to worship."

Live load. That's engineer talk for the people. The weight the bridge was built to carry. Not the steel, not the plaque. The ones walking across.

I'll be honest, I forget sometimes. Silly me. I forget who I am surrounded by. I sit right there in their presence and it doesn't register, but when I remember? I am in awe. Starstruck. Celebrity awe, I suppose.

You know that one person from childhood? The actor or famous athlete you just had to meet, and somehow even in adulthood that person sticks with you? Mine was Hulk Hogan. I have no idea why, other than my Grandpa, who I so adored, watched wrastlin. (No, I did not spell that wrong. And please, when you read it, say it like I spelled it.) Mr. Hogan has since passed, so child Noelle is disappointed.

But then I wonder if she had any idea who she would sit in rooms with. Not the famous people I've met. The world changers. "Normal people" impacting lives all over the world for generations to come, that I get to call friends. Whoa. I think she would call my bluff and say yeah, right.

Some of our friends are commissioning whole cities for million dollar all inclusive playgrounds, committing themselves to building an inclusive, brighter future for kiddos with special needs. Other friends are putting together the platform for our city's first ever prayer breakfast, over 600 people in one room, all working to expand His Kingdom. We sit with people who have snuck Bibles across borders or built churches in countries where less than 2% of the population is Christian. We have friends who sold everything to plant churches in states far away from their family.

And somewhere between Joe's book, sitting with our friends, and doing my daily work, I saw what they all have in common. We are all bridge builders. Their way looks different than ours. They aren't knee deep in mud in the middle of the jungle or using sketchy "bathrooms" (holes in the floor). Their mission field might look like a golf course on TV, a conference room at a convention center, or a transformed bar in the tourist district of Kathmandu. But we are all doing the same thing.

Building a bridge.

But here's what I keep coming back to. Our actual, physical bridge was never really the point. Not the cables, not the cement, not even the crossing. The bridges just happen to be the structures. They are what God's love looks like when you can stand on it. The bridge we are all actually building, my friends with their playgrounds and prayer breakfasts and church plants, Joe knee deep in the Cricamola, me on the phone with a worried mom, is the one that brings somebody one step closer to Him.

And mine? Most days, mine looks like the parents of young adult missionaries.

In August, over 130 young adults stepped onto the bridge. Their parents are standing on the bank, watching, praying, wondering what their part is now. I know, because I'm the one they call. Every one of them is a sender, and most of them have forgotten that they were once sent too.

In this season, I suppose I get muddy building bridges, and I also stay on the phone a lot building bridges with parents. Both look different, but both are the same. We start on the bank parents are standing on, hopefully remembering that before their child was ever sent, they were. Then we let go of the rope, like Hannah placing Samuel in God's hands, and learn that releasing is not losing. Then we walk right out into the middle of the bridge, month three, when the communication goes quiet and the worry gets loud, and I hold their hands, fingers intertwined, and we sit in the truth that the hard middle is where God does His deepest work, in our kids and in us. We learn to hold the other end, the way Aaron and Hur held up Moses' arms when he couldn't hold them up anymore. We remember that no parent was ever meant to carry this alone, that Nehemiah's wall went up family by family, or as Joe would put it, strength is a property of the connections. And then, God willing, we let our kids lead us. They went first, and now they come back for us, teaching us what they learned out there. The circle goes round and round, a little wider every time.

And here's the part that gets me every time. Bridge Two went up in half the time of Bridge One, and it wasn't the weather or the money or a better design. It was the people. The ones who learned on the first bridge showed up to the second one as teachers. That's what I pray we raise up: parents who stood on that same bank not so long ago, who can now stand at the edge for the new ones. The one who was held becomes the one who holds, in whatever way that looks for them.

Joe writes, "At the cross, God the Son laid Himself across the gap. One end anchored in perfect holiness, the other end reaching all the way down to us, and the traffic of mercy has been crossing on Him ever since. The Carpenter's greatest project was a bridge, and He was the bridge."

We don't build the bridge that saves anyone. That one is already built. Paid for. Holding.

We just get to build the small ones. A playground where every kid gets to play. A prayer breakfast with six hundred people in one room. A church plant far from home. A phone call on a weeknight that carries a mom across to her daughter's world. And every single one of them leads to that ONE. And then, if we're doing it right, we get to stand at the edge with someone who is scared to step out, and take their hand.

Because someone took ours first.

Our kids went first. Now He is asking us the same thing He asked Isaiah:

"Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?" Then I said, "Here I am! Send me." Isaiah 6:8

Hineni.

What a joyful shout that is! Woo hoo! May our hearts be open to the lessons God has in store and the new perspectives we will gain. With each "woo hoo," let’s celebrate the small victories and the moments of grace that will surely mark our path. Here’s to a journey filled with faith, hope, and the promise of encountering God in the most unexpected places!

Oh, what a joyous celebration! Can you feel it? There’s a vibrant energy bubbling within me, echoing the excitement of our mission trip! It’s as if the very spirit of adventure is cheering us on—Woo-hoo! Woo-hoo! Woo-hoo!

As we embark on this journey, we’re not just traveling to new places; we’re opening our hearts to profound encounters with God. Each moment is a chance to witness His love in action, to share our faith with others, and to experience spiritual growth that transforms us from the inside out.

Every cheer is a reminder that we are on a faith journey together, united in purpose and filled with hope. Let’s embrace this adventure, knowing that God has incredible plans for each of us. So, let’s keep those spirits high—Woo-hoo! Woo-hoo! Woo-hoo! Our mission awaits!