1

In the darkness of the lounge the mountain climber told me of the moment he died.

He had lost his grip and fallen backwards into empty air. He fell to his death. But in a snap moment, the rope caught him, and held him up against the sky like two fingers holding a pebble above an ocean.

He gazed down at the swirling clouds beneith, and clung to the rope with every bit of strength he had.

He took a deep breath, and focused his sight on the cliff. Slowly, he began pulling himself back towards the rock, centimeter by centimeter, inch by inch.

The nylon was patient. It held strong. It waited.

When the mountain climber had reached the top of the mountain he arrived with a realization. Ultimately it wasn’t the rope that had saved him.
“It was my grip!” He exclaimed in triumph. At that he grinned, patted my shoulder, and went back to his friends at the other side of the bar.
And I sat in thought.

2

Several weeks later, I walked by a man asleep. He sat on the sidewalk, back against a wall with a sign cradled in his arms. Scratched in the dull cardboard was some common plea for help. Something about being homeless; maybe traveling.

But I caught a glimpse of something. Curled between his fingers was a string of plastic beads, and at the end, a white cross, dangling in the air. His fist clung tight to the beads. Even in sleep he wouldn’t let go.
For some reason I thought of the mountain climber.

When a man hangs in the air, it isn’t the strength of the rope that holds him, it’s his grip.