Reflections on a Windshield

It was out of context, and it bothered me. Miles away from any sign of civilization, it was the last thing I expected to see as I made my way toward an obscure bend in the Congaree River, my goal for the day.

It was early spring, and I had been hiking for several hours through the Congaree Swamp National Park, the last two with no discernible trail under foot.  I was relying upon my Magellan Explorist 610 to guide me to a particular spot on the map that had intrigued me. Why the spot interested me, I truly don’t know; exclusive of the fact that it looked like a place where no human had ever set foot, and I was channeling Marco Polo on this particular morning.
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As I made my way through the tangle of vines, roots, and fallen branches that make up the floor of the swamp, my legs were beginning to tire a bit; and the bottom of my left foot was reminding me of a childhood encounter with a brown recluse. I must admit that it was a relief when I finally broke through the undergrowth to the welcoming sunshine of the river’s edge. 

It was indeed a beautiful place. The river rolled away around a bend shimmering in the late morning sunshine, a light breeze carried the sweet smell of wisteria my way from somewhere deep in the forest, and the soft sand of the shore was inviting me to have a seat.

I accepted the invitation and reveled for a time in the peace and quiet of the place. The enchanting feeling of being totally separate from the rest of the world enveloped me as I watched a red tailed hawk come to rest in the high branches of a cypress tree on the opposite shore.  The quiet was soon shattered, however by the raucous cries of a flock of crows as they attempted to dislodge the hawk from his perch. There appeared to be no malice in their efforts, just a way to fight off midday boredom, I suppose. Eventually though the hawk tired of their games and took to the air gliding effortlessly down the center of the river toward the aforementioned bend and disappearing into the mist.

As my eyes followed his progress I noticed a glimmer on the shore, well actually back from the shore in the woods about a quarter mile down river from my location. Bored with resting, I arose and walked through the woods to where I estimated the glimmer originated; and much to my surprise, I discovered the windscreen from a Model T Ford leaning against a tree. It was a deep brown from decades of weather and rust. It was hopelessly entangled by years of vine growth, and upon further examination, I noticed that the tree itself had grown around the bottom crosspiece, cracking the glass and forever locking that windshield in time and space.

For reasons unknown to me at the time, the presence of that windscreen bothered me. Oh, it was a fascination to me to be sure, but it had invaded my fanciful idea of being the first to enter this primeval forest. In so doing, it had reminded me that time and space are simply borrowed. It reminded me that we as human beings are living out our lives on a timeline that will eventually end. It left me asking, “I wonder who owned that Ford and if that old windscreen is all that was left behind to indicate that he or she walked the planet.” I tend to get a little bit morose when my fanciful daydreams are disturbed.     

Morose or not, it forced me to ask myself what will be left behind after I depart. In years to come will some young man happen upon an old silver bullet of a camper, windows broken, tires flat,  grown over with vines, hidden in the woods for decades and ask the same question of me?     
 
That question ran laps in my mind as I made my way back to the trail-head that afternoon. What would I leave behind? What legacy would define who I was and /or am to those who follow? Over and above that I was forced to ask myself, is my name, or my legacy of any importance whatsoever in the scheme of things? Upon reflection I had to conclude that no, my legacy is of little importance.

The name of Anthony S. Rowell will be remembered by a pitiful few when I leave this earth. With that understood, I know without a doubt that while my legacy is of little importance, the legacy of Christ and what I can contribute to that legacy is of vast importance. For while my name will be but a fleeting memory to most, the name of Jesus Christ will live forever. With that in mind I pray that my life adds to the legacy of Christ first and foremost, for there can be no greater calling, no greater purpose, and no greater legacy than that; and I pray the same for you.  
 
Tony Rowell