Lightkeepers "Converse" Upon the Whispering Winds
A breeze off the ocean occasionally seems to be more than mere wind, especially at a lighthouse. Sweeping unseen across the light station grounds, the wind carries with it whispers from the past. Though scarcely discernible, the wordless narrative speaks volumes about long ago, happenings unremembered and lightkeeper musings still adrift upon the sea.
Keepers and their families talked, pondered, dreamed and felt sorrow. Like us, there was nary a time when their thoughts did not manifest into some form of expression – spoken or otherwise. Today, in ways mysterious, the wind stirs this spirit to a palpable perception, though outright comprehension is invariably elusive.
When at a lighthouse, this I know – keepers once this way did pass. Their names I need not catch amidst the swirling rush – nor are there any expectations for an audible conversation to grace my ears. Still, I listen and fathom the perplexities.
“We were not always a memory from a bygone era,” an assemblage of wickies seemingly sigh. “No, there were many a day when we basked in the living colors of blues, greens and golds – and of course, the black of night too. We were once present and accounted for when the moment at-hand was all that mattered. Just like you, here and now. But alas, when we thought it was all so enduring, light slipped through our fingers – and with it, our very presence as well.”
The fanciful discourse stretches on with one of the keepers presumably saying, “It may have been a calling, but it was an appointment too. A serious one that was held in the highest regard. Yet, how could we have known the sense of specialness that would one day embrace the tradition of lighthouse keepers? At the time, we were all just doing our job. It was in service to others. Nothing more – or so we thought.”
Such humility is bracing – the abiding sense of duty, simply profound. Restless is the wind as I reflect upon the depths of the ‘conversation’s’ ambiguity, and so too my heart.
I look around me for any shred of evidence to reassure my mind that what I am feeling is indeed existent. I think to myself, ‘Somewhere there must be random impressions of keepers that linger still. Are they tucked away in their former home, along the staircase that leads aloft or in the clefts of granite ledge strewn about wherein shadows tarry?’
It is then when the keepers perhaps collectively observe, “You will not find most of our thoughts on paper yellowed or upon etchings faded. For our contemplations dwelt in the present. Can you feel them? Such vagaries are somewhere – everywhere, in fact. They were in the present then, and they abide in the present still. How is not for us to know.”
“So let your imagination wander, your mind remain open and your heart be the ever-patient guide. Exact understanding will not be possible, but we too were unable to fully realize the wonder that surrounded us wickies either.”
One of the keepers surely must have concluded, “So fret not that I am gone. Instead, relish this story that belongs to you and me. What I started to write, you must now complete. You may miss me as much as I miss my lighthouse, but you are now my reason for being – the ‘flame’ that must not be eclipsed. Tend to it faithfully through time and change. People need to see this beacon to help guide them along the pathway of life. They needed it then. They need it now.”
Loved the etchings and was reminded about Abby Burgess’s story . Perhaps one day you can write about that. I think it’s been a long time since I’ve heard what she actually experienced in history.
Like the lighthouse, Jesus is the beacon that guides us. We can find direction and refuge in Him through the storms of life. He can keep us away from the rocks of sin