On the bank of a wide, slow river there lived a ferryman whose hands were
rough from the oar and whose heart was light as a feather.
All day he carried people across — merchants with heavy bundles, mothers with
babies, pilgrims, children, old men leaning on sticks. From dawn until the
stars came out, he rowed back and forth, back and forth.
A young man who watched him grew puzzled. The ferryman never asked who his
passengers were. He never argued over the fare. When a rich trader praised
him, he only smiled. When an angry man cursed the slow crossing, he only
smiled. When a poor woman could not pay, he carried her anyway and smiled.
"Ferryman," the young man finally asked, climbing into the boat, "I have
watched you for days. Good people and bad people sit in your boat. Some thank
you, some scold you, some cheat you. How do you stay so calm? Doesn't any of
it stick to you?"
The ferryman dipped his oar and pulled. The boat slid out onto the bright
water.
"Watch the oar," he said.
The young man watched. Each stroke pushed the blade deep into the river,
pulled hard, and lifted it out again — and the water ran off it at once,
silver drops falling back into the river. The oar came up clean and dry every
single time. Not a drop clung to it.
"When I lift the oar," said the ferryman, "the water does not come with it. It
falls back where it belongs. That is how I do my work. Every crossing, the
moment it is done, I let it fall back to God — the praise and the scolding,
the good days and the bad, the fare paid and the fare cheated. I keep none of
it. So none of it can weigh me down."
The young man was quiet for a long while as the far bank drew near.
"Then your boat is never heavy," he said at last.
"Never," said the ferryman, smiling. "I carry everyone across, and I hold on
to no one. My hands stay empty. And empty hands, you know, are the only
hands that are truly free."
The boat touched the shore. The young man stepped out a little lighter than
he had stepped in — for he understood, now, that a deed given away to God
leaves no rope behind to tie you, and the one who keeps nothing is the one
who arrives, at last, home.
