The Bridge with No Planks

The village of Alderbrook sat between two steep hills, separated by a roaring river. The only way across was an old wooden bridge, built generations ago. Time had worn its planks thin, the railings loose, the nails rusted by years of rain. People crossed it carefully, step by cautious step, listening to the groans of wood beneath their feet.

One stormy night, half the bridge gave way. By morning, only the support ropes remained, swaying above the rushing water. The villagers stood at the riverbank, staring at the gap in disbelief.

“It’s gone,” one man muttered. “No one can cross that now.”

The carpenter shook his head. “We’ll rebuild, but it will take weeks. Until then, we stay on our side.”

But not everyone could wait. Across the river, an old woman named Elara had fallen ill. The village doctor, Mara, lived on the opposite bank. She was known for her steady hands and calm heart, but as she gazed at the ruined bridge, her calm wavered.

The ropes stretched over the water like the outline of something that used to be. Beneath them, the river raged with white foam, swallowing whole branches as if they were twigs.

“You can’t cross,” the carpenter told her. “There’s nothing to step on.”

Mara tightened her satchel. “Then I’ll find something else to step on.”

The crowd followed her to the edge. She tested the first rope with her weight—it held. Hand over hand, she edged forward. Below her, the river roared so loudly she could barely hear her own breath.

Halfway across, the wind picked up. The rope swayed, the river seemed to pull her downward. Her boots searched for wood, but there were no planks—only the thin fibers beneath her feet, biting into her soles.

Every instinct screamed at her to turn back. But Elara’s face—pale, waiting—rose in her mind.

“Keep moving,” she whispered to herself. “You don’t need the whole bridge. Just the next step.”

She fixed her eyes not on the other side, but on the short length of rope just ahead of her toes. Step. Grip. Breathe. Then again.

When she finally reached the other side, the villagers there pulled her onto solid ground. Her legs shook, but she wasted no time, heading straight to Elara’s cottage. Hours later, the old woman’s fever broke.

Word of her crossing spread quickly. Soon, others who had urgent needs began to follow her example—merchants carrying food, families visiting loved ones. The carpenter lashed ropes together into a temporary walkway, but it was still unstable. You couldn’t see all the steps at once.

At first, people hesitated. “What if I fall?” they would ask.

Mara’s answer was always the same: “You only need one safe step at a time. The rest will come when you get there.”

One afternoon, a boy named Tomas stood at the riverbank, trembling. His father was on the far side, hurt while chopping wood. Tomas wanted to reach him, but his eyes kept darting to the water below.

“I can’t do it,” he said, his voice breaking.

Mara knelt beside him. “You can. Look only at your feet, not the whole river. Don’t think about the end—think about the next place to stand.”

The boy nodded and placed one foot on the rope. It wobbled under his weight. His breath caught, but he remembered her words. Step. Grip. Breathe.

By the time he reached his father, Tomas was laughing through tears.

The temporary rope bridge remained for several months until the carpenter finished the new wooden one. But something had changed in Alderbrook. People no longer feared the crossing as they once had—not because the bridge was safer, but because they had learned to trust themselves to move forward even when the path wasn’t complete.

Years later, Mara’s words became a saying in the village:

You don’t need the whole bridge to cross the river—just the next step.

Moral:

Life rarely gives us a full, steady bridge. We must learn to move forward even when we can’t see all the steps ahead.