The Lighthouse Keeper

The best imagery I’ve found to describe my life right now is the cover picture of my blog.
I imagine a lighthouse standing on fallow land — stretching west toward a quiet, neglected garden and east toward a stormy sea.

Out in the deep, the sea is rough and restless. A ship struggles against the waves. You can’t tell yet whether it’s coming or going, but you hope it sees the lighthouse — that it finds its way safely to shore, avoiding the rocks and other perilous obstacles, like the sirens calling from the darkness.

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 squid or octopus to the image — I’d call it Gambling — with one long tentacle creeping up the side of his ship.

To the west lies my garden. It’s not much right now — hard, weedy, sad land. But it’s mine to tend. It’s up to me to till the soil, to plant and nourish it, to make it bloom again — because my husband is still out at sea.

And the lighthouse? That’s me.
I’m the keeper.
It’s my job to keep the light burning — to guide him home, even when I’m lonely and aching for his return. I have to stay strong, like the tower itself: weathering the storms, standing firm against the wind and waves.

In the meantime, I work the garden.
I keep my hands in the dirt and my eyes on the horizon — something to steady me when patience falters.

I pray his ship makes it home to harbor — safely, gently — and that someday, he can finally lay down his anchor in my arms, and I in his.