The Lighthouse Keeper

The best image I've found to describe my life right now is the one on the cover of this blog.

A lighthouse standing on fallow land — the sea stretching out to the east, a neglected garden to the west. Out on the water, the sea is rough and stormy. A ship struggles in the deep. You can't tell yet if it's coming or going, but you hope it sees the lighthouse. You hope it finds its way in — avoiding the rocks, the waves, the sirens calling from the dark.

In my mind, my husband is the ship. The sirens are the other women. The rocks and waves are all the temptations and situations that could run him aground or pull him under. I've even thought about adding a giant octopus to the image — I'd call it Gambling — with one long tentacle creeping up the side of his hull.

To the west is my garden. It's not much right now. Weedy, hard, sad land. But it's mine to tend. It's up to me to till it, plant it, nurture it — to make it something worth coming home to. Because right now, my husband is still out at sea.

And the lighthouse? I'm the keeper.

It's my job to keep the light burning. To guide him home, even when I'm lonely and aching and missing him. I have to stay strong like the tower itself — standing firm against the wind and the waves.

In the meantime, I work the garden. Something to keep my hands busy and my eyes on the horizon when patience starts to waver.

I pray his ship makes it safely to harbor. That one day he can finally lay down his anchor — in my arms, and me in his.