The Lighthouse Path
Dear Friend,
The other night I took advantage of the beautiful weather and strolled down toward the water. The intense August heat has stretched a little into September, but the humidity has slowly begun to leave us. The last few weeks brought late-afternoon showers that stretched into evening, rendering my after-dinner walk nigh impossible.
Until last night.
I left the house around seven and made my way to the Grove at Magnolia Sound to catch the sunset. I walked and chatted with everyone I passed. Couples strolled along holding hands. Friendly dogs came up looking for extra love. Nearly everyone remarked on the weather — and it was perfect, by the way. No bugs, no humidity. The sunset was spectacular, lighting the horizon in its signature gold.
I ended up on a bench long after dark had settled in around me. The night was so wonderful, I was loath to let it go. As I sat there, I noticed the beacon from the lighthouse.
There's something about a lighthouse, isn't there? I love looking at it from the pier, but last night, from where I sat, all I could see was the beam itself, sweeping the water. It lit a patch out on the surface, then swung away and disappeared. My eyes drifted up to the stars, and before I knew it, the light was back, illuminating that same small stretch of water again.
I started thinking about the ships that used to navigate by lighthouses like this one — not today's ships, with their GPS and their navigation systems, but the old ones. The ones who read the stars, the moon, the weather. For them, a light like this one made all the difference. And still, they had to cut out into open water, trusting that the beacon they couldn't yet see would be exactly where it was supposed to be.
Even then, it never lit much. Just a small blip on the surface — enough to tell them where the lighthouse stood. A long, curving arc of light, sweeping in a steady rhythm. The whole path was never lit at once. Just a small stretch of it, over and over, for as long as they needed it.
Sitting there watching that same patch of water light up again and again, I saw a striking connection to life and faith.
Life is mostly an expanse of time in which we chart a course and set out on it, mostly blind to what could be waiting just around the corner. Death. Sickness. Heartbreak. A promotion. A new relationship. A move. And sometimes, even after we've taken the time to plan and to pray over a decision, we still stand immobile — afraid to take the step, afraid to walk the path because of what might be lurking, unseen and unplanned for. We don't want to make a mistake. We're afraid to misstep. So instead, we stand still while life, opportunities, and adventures pass us by. We deny ourselves the journey. We deny ourselves the wisdom that could be gained, because we're afraid to move through waters we can't yet chart.
That's where faith comes in, isn't it?
Faith, I'm beginning to realize, takes practice. It's a muscle you have to build in order to operate in it. It asks us to move without knowing the whole course, without the sun overhead lighting the entire path at once. Instead, it calls us to navigate the dark with only a small, rhythmic beacon — illuminating just enough of the course ahead to take the next step.
I sat on that bench a good while longer, watching the light come and go, thinking about how much of my own life has been walked exactly that way.
Maybe that's worth remembering, wherever your own path has you walking blind.
Is there a light you're walking toward these days — one you can't quite see yet, but trust is there?
Until next time,
—A Friend from Magnolia Isle
