The Brookie and the Bridge

Oftentimes—especially in today’s cultural malaise—we need to find a way to mute the background noise just to preserve our sanity. And I’m not joking. The world is noisy. It distracts us from what truly matters.

It convinces us that if we’re not constantly producing, we’re not valuable. And when things don’t unfold as we’d hoped—when we take a fall and end up soaked in the creek of life—it can feel like a serious setback.

That’s why we must intentionally build a rhythm into our lives. The ancients had a word for it: askesis. I like to call it “Soulitude”.

It’s a simple concept—but one that many of us resist. Instead, we schedule vacations or long weekends. And while those are wonderful, they often come wrapped in more busyness: family events, travel, logistics. Good things, but not always restorative.

Meanwhile, life continues to bruise us—from leading difficult teams, to teaching the unwilling, to an endless stream of phone calls and data entry. Many of us enjoy our jobs (some more than others), but that doesn’t make them any less taxing. Even family life—something I will always champion from the mountaintops—can stretch us thin.

So, we must find time to care for our souls. This means solitude. It means contemplation, prayer, and time with your Maker.

Call it self-care if you’d like—but with a caveat: we should care for ourselves without making ourselves the center of the universe. There’s a difference between rest and self-indulgence. I won’t unpack that fully here, but I do want to make that distinction clear.

So, what does all of this have to do with the title?

A few months ago, after not having had a real break or vacation in years, I felt dangerously close to burning out—ready to explode from stress and anxiety. During that time, I was processing a wonderful book by Dr. Ross Inman (I’ll link to it below). He writes beautifully about the importance of philosophy and having an “existential map” to guide our lives. He speaks of the wisdom found in intentional retreat—stepping away with purpose as a means to orient yourself to this map.

So, I did just that.

I told my 17-year-old son: “We’re leaving for a few days.”

I booked us a campsite along Minister Creek in the Allegheny National Forest. No cell service. No digital tether. Just 2½ days of disappearance.

It was wonderfully refreshing.

Our campsite was right on the stream—and being a fly fisherman, I didn’t even wait to finish unpacking. I grabbed my rod, tied on a dry-dropper with a stimulator up top, and headed straight to the water.

Just below our site stood a bridge. And if you fish, you know: bridges hold fish. That bridge became a metaphor for the weekend. It was our “bridge to solitude”.

We had to cross it to reach our campsite, and I had to cross it to fish. That night, I hooked a few trout—and, unexpectedly, took one’s life. It was the first time that’s ever happened to me unintentionally. We honored the catch by eating it. A brook trout—a large one, likely stocked. When we opened it up to clean it, we found another fish inside, half its size.

The weekend unfolded with hikes deep into the forest. Each one breathtaking.

And I was reminded of something from 11 years ago—one of our first camping trips together, when my son was finally old enough to start understanding and remembering. I have a photo from that trip, taken from a beautiful rock overlooking the mountains—the same rock we visited again this time.

We ended the trip with a six-mile hike, soaking in the wonder and enchantment of every step the creation had to offer us. At night, we sat by the fire, stream beside us, reading books and discussing everything from worldviews and culture to love and family.

There was no digital connection—something that’s become an intentional goal for our family.

But there was a “brookie”, and there was a “bridge”. Both of these things connected us to the kind of restorative peace we both needed. We crossed it physically, we crossed it together, and it helped us cross over into a time of contemplation.

And more importantly, there was a “soul-deep peace” that refreshed us in ways no weekend at home ever could. A reconnection with creation—and with the Creator. This kind of intentional solitude isn’t a luxury; it’s a necessity. Something we need to weave into our lives and into our families as a “heritage of peace and restoration”.

If you’re reading this—and especially if you’re a follower of Christ—remember: even Jesus often sought solitude. He stepped away from the crowds, the demands, and even the good work… to reconnect with the Father.

So should we.