Bridges and Water: Lessons from the Edge of Fear.

Bridges and Water: Lessons from the Edge of Fear. How Mama, the Lake, and the Creator Taught Me to Stay Afloat.

By Kateb Shunnar

I woke up with my heart acting like it had just run from something it couldn’t name. Eyes open, room quiet, but my spirit still jittery, like it didn’t get the memo that danger had clocked out. I lay there staring at the ceiling, letting the dream finish stretching its legs, because some dreams don’t like being rushed. You pull them too fast into daylight and they shut down, take their meaning with them.

In the dream, I was riding in a car with my mama, Marva, gone from this world but never really gone, and my sister sitting up front. We were crossing Lake Pontchartrain, same bridge folks drive over every day without thinking twice, trusting concrete and routine like they permanent. Then something shifted. No warning signs. No dramatic music. The bridge was just not there anymore. And somehow, we were driving on the water like it wasn’t breaking any rules.

That’s when fear slid in. Not screaming. Not throwing chairs. Just settling heavy in my chest, asking questions my mouth couldn’t form. Because Lake Pontchartrain ain’t just water. It’s memory. It’s mood. It’s a witness. Folks from New Orleans know you don’t play with water that remembers things.

I was in the back seat, which felt about right. I’ve spent a good chunk of my life there, watching, waiting, trusting other people or circumstances to steer while I pretend I’m cool with it. My sister was up front, steady and forward-facing, like she always been. And my mama was there too. Quiet. Calm. The same calm she used to carry when everything around us was loud and falling apart. She had that look that said, Why you panicking when I’m right here?

Seeing her didn’t scare me. Losing the bridge did. Funny how that works. The dead can feel familiar, even comforting. It’s the uncertainty that rattles us. It’s the moment when what’s supposed to hold you up decides it’s done doing its job.

I wanted to holler. I wanted explanations. I wanted the Creator to run me a PowerPoint presentation on what exactly was happening and how long it was gonna last. But nothing came out. Just me in the back seat, gripping invisible seat belts, watching dark water roll beneath us like it had its own plans. And yet we didn’t sink. Not even a little. No wobble. No splash. Just smooth riding, like the water recognized us and said, Go on ahead, I got you.

That’s when something settled in me. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a quiet recognition. I’ve been here before. Not driving on water, thank the Creator, but living on it. Emotionally.

Spiritually. Times when the structure disappeared with no notice. Jobs evaporated. Relationships unraveled slow and painful. Plans I prayed over collapsed like they were made out of damp cardboard. Moments when I knew deep down I didn’t have the balance or the answers for what was happening next. Moments when I thought, This is it. This where I drown.

But I didn’t.

Fear always shows up acting brand new, like it ain’t been defeated before. It got selective memory. It’ll look you straight in the face and say, This time different, knowing good and well it said that last time too. Fear ain’t a prophet. It’s just loud. Like that one auntie who swear she know the whole story but only heard half of it.

What steadied me in that dream wasn’t bravery. It was familiarity. The kind you feel when your body remembers something your mind forgot. Like walking through your childhood house in the dark and not bumping into a thing because your feet already know the way. My spirit recognized the feeling of being carried. Of being covered. Of being held in place even when the math wasn’t mathing.

My mama used to say, “Don’t argue with the Creator when He already decided.” She’d say it plain, stirring a pot, not even looking up, like she was talking about the weather. Back then, I thought she meant obedience. Now I know she meant trust. There’s a difference. Obedience clenches. Trust exhales.

And listen, I complain. I ask questions. I side-eye the Creator on occasion. I’ve told the Creator straight up, I don’t like this lesson, more than once. But even in my fussing, something keeps me upright. That’s grace. Not the polished, pretty kind. I’m talking about gritty grace. The kind that shows up late, hair wrapped, still gets the job done.

Growing up, I heard stories that never made it into books. Kitchen-table folklore. Elders said certain roads remember people. Especially the ones near water. They said those paths learn the names of folks who walked them in faith, shaky faith, borrowed faith, faith with questions, and when those folks fell, the road would rise just enough to meet them. They called it the floating way. Not magic. Memory. The land remembering who trusted the Creator on it before you ever showed up.

I used to nod at that story like, Yeah, okay. But riding across that water in my dream, mama calm as ever, fear loud but not winning, I felt it. Maybe the water remembered. Maybe the prayers poured into that lake over generations stacked up. Maybe the Creator said, Not today.

There’s humor in surviving things you were sure would flatten you. Survival got jokes. Dark ones. Inside jokes. The kind you don’t laugh at until years later when the sting loosens its grip. New Orleans taught me that humor is holy. We laugh at funerals. We dance behind coffins. We season sorrow so it don’t spoil us from the inside out. If you don’t laugh sometimes, fear gets bold.

After my mama passed, folks loved telling me she was “in a better place.” And I wanted to say, Okay, but I’m still here. Grief don’t care about good theology. It just wants its person back. That dream didn’t bring my mama back, but it reminded me she never really left. Affection like that doesn’t vanish. It shifts. It shows up in dreams, in sudden calm, in the way you don’t lose your mind when logic says you should.

Down here, we believe the veil stays thin. That’s why we talk to our dead like they still listening, because on some level, we know they are. Spirituality ain’t separate from life in New Orleans. It’s in the gumbo. In the music. In the way we say names out loud so they don’t disappear.

That dream didn’t give me answers. It gave me reassurance. And reassurance lasts longer. Answers expire. Reassurance settles into your bones and waits for you to need it again. I woke up knowing that even if the bridge disappears tomorrow or next year, I won’t automatically drown. I might panic. I might cry. I might need a minute. But I’ll stay afloat somehow.

Because I always have.

So now, when life starts wobbling and my chest tightens for no clear reason, I think back to that water. I remember the tires rolling like they had somewhere to be. I remember my mama’s calm. I remember that fear talked, but faith drove. And I tell myself, You’ve ridden water before. You can do it again.

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