I was on a journey, and had walked for many miles when my travels came to an abrupt halt as I reached the edge of an abyss. As you can imagine, I found this not a little disappointing, and stood there for a long while wondering how to get across.
I stood at the edge of the chasm, and the acrobat smiled at my amazement. “Don’t you think I can do it again?” he asked.
“Certainly,” I replied with sincere gravity and awe. “Of course I believe you can.”
The acrobat repeated the question, and when the answer was the same, he pointed to the wheelbarrow and said, “Good! Get in, then, and I will take you across.”
To be sure, I felt a brief pang of trepidation, but this I took as a child, with the surging thrill of adventure. “Truly?” I cried, apprehensive and overjoyed.
“Indeed,” he said, smiling to see my eagerness.
Hereupon I leapt into the wheelbarrow and settled myself for the journey.
Time passed and the acrobat pushed me over the tightrope for what seemed endless miles, never varying in speed, never becoming weak or fatigued. For all this, however, we surely had more than three-quarters of our journey yet to travel. Infinitely the rope stretched before us—I could see no end near or otherwise. I twisted my head around to peer behind, and saw that the opposite cliff from whence we’d come had disappeared, too, and there would be no returning. Below, the dark of the abyss; above, the clouds congregated as for a rainstorm.
Where I had previously felt such peace, the chill of fear crept into my heart. How terribly alone we seemed. How awfully long and hard this journey was! What if I was too heavy and the acrobat grew tired? After all, he had only finished pushing someone else when I came along. I felt as though I ought to help, but I had no skill or experience and the chasm fell so dreadfully far below.
Who was this acrobat anyway? To be sure, it felt as though I had known him forever. Certainly he kept on most prodigiously. But no one had told me how vast the tightrope was, how uncomfortable the wheelbarrow’s wood became, nor how the rain and wind could sting. And there were so many things about the acrobat I did not know.
Despite my deep breaths and rationalizations, I began to tremble, and my fingers gripped the wheelbarrow with all the strength that was in them.
Fog enveloped us. I was cold, wet, and afraid. I thought we were still moving, though it was hard to tell, and panic rose in me when I realized the fog obscured my acrobat completely from my sight and all but muffled his quiet voice entirely. And, shivering, I began to weep.
Could he hear my cries? Surely if he heard he would he not comfort me? Or would he be irritated at my lack of confidence and berate me—if not in word, then at least in thought, saying to himself, “What an ungrateful wretch this girl is, when I have promised to bring her across the abyss and am giving myself entirely for her.”
I wanted to be strong and bear the cold and wind and rain with patience. I wanted to be a child, weak but secure in my daddy’s lap, comforted and loved. But I was neither of these, and I was helpless and confused.
Every once in a great while I thought I heard whispers that sounded like, “I love you,” or “I am still here.” But I could never be sure, and was afraid it might be my imagination.
And I sat, huddled and miserable in the bottom of the wheelbarrow. The acrobat, I think, kept pushing, for we never once wavered on the thin line. And so we kept on.
(A personalized retelling of the story by Morton Kelsey)
