On a lonely stretch of shoreline, where the land met the tumultuous waters of Lake Erie, stood a lighthouse—tall, proud, and steadfast. For years, it had been a beacon of hope for sailors, its light cutting through the darkest nights and fiercest storms. The responsibility of keeping this vital light burning fell to a man who lived nearby, whose duty was simple yet crucial: to ensure that the flame never died.
But on this night, something changed. The storm that rolled in was fierce, rattling windows and sending even the bravest souls seeking shelter. The lighthouse keeper, weary from years of service and lured by the warmth of his home, made a fateful decision. As the winds howled outside and the waves crashed against the shore, he looked at the raging storm and thought, Who would be foolish enough to be out on a night like this?
He convinced himself that no ship would navigate the treacherous waters in such conditions. So, with a heavy sigh and a longing for comfort, he let the fire in the lighthouse’s lantern dwindle. Instead of tending to his post, he retreated to his small cottage a short distance away. There, he settled into his bed, wrapped himself in a warm blanket, and let the crackling fire in his hearth lull him to sleep. As he drifted off, he felt a fleeting pang of guilt, but it was quickly drowned out by the comfort of his bed and the soft glow of his own fire.
It was a night like no other–the sky was as black as the deep abyss, and the wind howled with a chorus of lost souls. A small, weather-beaten freight barge fought against the relentless waves of Lake Erie. The storm had come suddenly, with no warning, turning a routine journey into a battle for survival.
At the helm of the barge stood a young captain, fresh-faced and full of ambition but lacking the deep wisdom that only years at sea can bring. His hands, though steady, were new to the feel of the ship’s wheel in a storm like this. He had been entrusted with this voyage, a great opportunity for a young man eager to prove himself. But as the storm raged on, he realized that this night would demand more than skill; it would require something deeper, something he wasn’t sure he possessed.
Beside him stood the pilot, an old man with silver hair and a face weathered by countless storms. He had spent his entire life guiding ships through these perilous waters, and while the young captain felt the grip of fear tightening around his heart, the pilot remained calm, his eyes sharp and focused. The upper lights that ancient mariners relied upon—the stars and the moon—were hidden behind thick, roiling clouds. There was no celestial guidance, only the storm’s relentless assault.
The pilot, however, was not one to be easily shaken. He had seen storms before, and he knew the waters well. He began to steer the barge toward what he believed was the safety of Cleveland Harbor. “Stay the course,” he told the captain. “We’ll find the lights soon enough.”
The young captain looked to the pilot for reassurance. “Are you sure we’re on the right course?” he asked, his voice barely audible over the roar of the wind and waves.
The pilot nodded, his voice steady. “I’ve navigated these waters more times than I can count. Stay the course, lad. We’ll find the lights soon enough.”
But as they approached the shore, the situation grew dire. The lighthouse, the beacon that should have been their salvation, was dark. Its light, which should have pierced through the storm and guided them to safety, was nowhere to be seen. The man responsible for keeping the light burning had abandoned his post, choosing the warmth and comfort of his home over the cold, relentless duty that others depended on.
“I don’t see the lower lights. Where are they?” the captain persisted.
“Most likely, they have gone out, sir,” the older man answered, trying to mask the concern in his voice.
“Do you think you can make the harbor?” the captain asked, anxiety choking his words.
“We must, or this storm will take us,” the pilot replied, his grip tightening on the wheel.
They pressed on, but the darkness was unforgiving. Without the lower lights to guide them, they missed the narrow channel. The waves, like hungry beasts, pushed the barge off course. Then came the sickening crunch of wood and metal against rock, the shudder that ran through the vessel as it was torn apart. The barge settled slowly into the icy waters, its cargo lost to the depths, and the lives of the crew were forfeited.
We have the “Upper Lights” of God’s guidance, Word, and promises. But He also gives us the responsibility to shine His light to those around us, especially our families. If we fail to keep our lights burning, others may stumble and fall into the darkness. Let the story of the lost barge be a solemn reminder to always keep your lights burning brightly, for you never know who might be depending on your light to guide them home.
And as the old hymn reminds us:
“Brightly beams our Father’s mercy, from His lighthouse evermore,
But to us He gives the keeping of the lights along the shore.
Let the lower lights be burning; send a gleam across the wave.
Some poor fainting, struggling seaman you may rescue, you may save.”
In this world, let us be faithful keepers of the light.
Westerman.Blog 