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The Beacon part 4

The young man was just putting away the last of his recovered belongings when the caretaker emerged from the bedroom. Determined to not be a burden the young man had already prepared the next meal from his supplies. It was early afternoon and dark clouds were already gathering to engulf the small island. At the first flash of lightning they began to count the seconds between the flash and the sound of thunder. This would let them know how many miles away the edge of the storm was. The second flash was a few seconds shorter between flash and crash. This one was coming in fast. The caretaker drops his spoon into the bowl with a splash and starts for the supply room . The young man catches him by the shoulder and motions towards the spiral staircase. The caretaker understands, the young man had already prepared the next round of oil in the lamp. They made their way to the top of the lighthouse and once more the beacon began it’s nightly battle with the darkness. They returned to the meal and stoked the fire. The little cottage had few creature comforts but the fireplace and generous supply of cordwood was one of them. It was while sitting by the fireplace that the caretaker noticed the small stack of personal items recovered from the wreckage. On top was an oilskin wrapped around a book. The caretaker gestured for the younger man to show him what was in the bundle. The young man handed him the oilskin and the caretaker removed a Bible. The leather cover was very worn and pages were falling out but it was all there. A certain look came over the caretaker’s face and a small tear formed in corner of one eye. The caretaker seemed to caress the book as he held it. Without lifting the cover he began to speak. It didn’t take long for the younger man to recognise that the caretaker was quoting scriptures verbatim in his own native tongue. After reciting a few passages the caretaker returned the sacred book to its oilskin and secured the closure. “It was my father’s book.” The young man said as he returned it to the small stack. “He was lost at sea when I was a child. It’s all I have left.” The caretaker placed a hand gently on the younger man shoulder as he spoke. After a few minutes of silence the caretaker motioned him to move back to the table and sit down. He disappeared into the back of the supply room and returned with a bottle of wine and a box. The caretaker pours each of them a proper glass of wine and opens the box. Inside was a chess board and pieces carved from shells gathered from the beach. They passed the evening with a few rounds of chess until it was time for the caretaker to focus on the maintaining the lamp and watching the rocks for the signs of ship in trouble.

The next morning the storm seemed to break early. The young man ventured into kitchen and greeted the caretaker. They had one more round of chess and the caretaker disappeared into the bedroom.

Wounded

black and white photography, Thoughts and Musing

We seem to have a tendency to do one of two things when we encounter a person who has been wounded either physically or emotionally. We either ignore the scar totally or we focus on it completely. Old wounds ache with a dull throbbing pain as a constant reminder that we messed up somewhere along the way. I was a rough child. I seemed to collect scars like merit badges. The stitches in the palm of my hand from a broken jar of fireflies, the scars on my knees from falling out of a moving pickup truck. I even have a couple of scars from a sword. ( only superficial and skin deep) I have numerous scrapes and scratches from briars and brambles. All of are a roadmap of my life. But the only scars I feared to collect were the scars on my soul. Broken bones and torn flesh heals so much faster than a wound of heart. As I approach a half of a century of earthly experience I have observed that to some people it’s the emotional scar that carries the badge of honor. Where I have lived life to it’s fullest and carry the physical marks of my adventures others have loved life and bear the honor of those adventures.

The image used in this post is a chestnut tree on my old home place. Years ago the metal fencepost was leaned against the trunk temporarily and then we got busy. The wound to the tree was one of neglect. When I think about the emotional wounds and scars of this world I have to believe that the majority are caused by neglect. We simply forget to go back and relieve a burden. The person wounded carries that burden until it works it’s way into the soul and becomes a part of them. It’s okay to remind a person of the burden that they left behind. It’s okay to simply cast off something that’s not supposed to be a part of your life. It’s wise to avoid the wound. But if you carry no scars have you really lived? One day this tree will be cut down. All that will remain will be the wood. As is a tradition in many rural areas someone will use the wood and the inclusion of scars will make for a beautiful end product. So it is with the scars we carry in the soul. They say that beauty is only skin deep but they are wrong. Beauty comes up from the very depth of the soul. It’s the scars and inclusions that make that beauty unique.

Sunday

black and white photography, Church, Sunday, Uncategorized

Growing up in the Bible belt I’ve been blessed to have the opportunity to visit a lot of small churches. In the days before the mega church and when there was nobody selling religion. The churches of small communities were places where families gathered to hear the word of God and not just what the preacher said. We knew good and well that nobody can buy a ticket to heaven with money or goid works. Vain obligations were just that. We resisted judging each other because we were justified by the blood of Christ and not by works or money. Church is a place for bonding not bondage.

The architecture of small community churches is something special. Everything from little cabins to scaled down cathedrals can be found tucked into Appalachian landscape. Bells and spires are sometimes topped with crosses and sometimes not.

The ringing of the church bell was a special privilege. Young people (mostly boys) would like up and take turns tugging on the rope. In trutruth we just liked making noise.

After church service extended family would get together at the home place for a large meal. The cooks would all gather in the kitchen and soon the house was full of wonderful smells the sounds of laughter. During the warm weather the children be outside trying to have fun without getting dirty. That’s a very difficult skill to master for a 10 year old boy. I can still smell my grandmother’s homemade bread when I think about it.

The Beacon

digital art, Fiction Story, short stories, The Beacon, Uncategorized

Today I wanted to take a break from the black and white photos. This image is a composit of a lighthouse I photographed several years ago. It was my first excursion into photography with lens larger than 35 mm. I created the background and storm clouds by manipulating other photos in my archive.

I wanted to give you feeling of the powerful light driving back the darkness. Everyone at some point feels lost in the storm. We need a beacon of hope to bring us into shore. I can see the inside of the little cabin at the base of the lighthouse in my mind’s eye. A kindly old caretaker stokes a warm fire and offers a blanket to a young refugee who barely made it to shore. The younger person is soaked to the bone from the winter storm. As they sit together and enjoy a hardy meal the Atlantic Ocean rages outside. Waves crash against the stoney shore in vain as if Neptune himself was frustrated with the young person’s escape from the darkness. They are safe and secure within the refuge of the lighthouse.