A Lantern in the Darkness
Come now, friend of the twilight, and join me in lifting a lantern into the night. For the winds are wild, and the darkness is deep, and many souls wander the unseen roads of sorrow, searching for a place where warmth still lingers, where the hush of welcome might cradle their weary hearts.
There are those who have traveled far through loneliness, who have long since abandoned the thought that a voice might still call them home. They have wrapped themselves in silence, believing that no one waits, that no hearth will glow with a light that beckons their name. But we are here, and we have light to give.
Raise your voice into the hollow night. Let it carry across the fields of longing, over the rivers of regret, through the valleys where shadows have made their dwelling. Speak into the aching quiet, and let the words fall like gentle rain:
"Come, traveler. Come in from the cold. Here, the light does not judge your sorrow, nor does the fire ask where you have been. Here, you are simply welcome."
For how many have made a home among the ruins of their own grief? How many have stood at the edge of love and turned away, believing themselves unworthy of its grace? And yet, no soul is ever truly lost. Even in the darkest night, a glimmer remains—a thin thread of gold weaving through the silence, a whisper that refuses to be swallowed by despair.
Perhaps you, too, have walked that silent road. Perhaps you have known the weight of exile, the cold absence of belonging. If so, then you understand the power of a single flame. You know the gift of a distant window aglow with kindness, the way a soft voice in the wind can undo the knots of solitude. You have been a wanderer; now, you are a keeper of light.
So let us stand together as sentinels of sanctuary, hands steady, flames unwavering. Let us be the ones who refuse to let the night close in unchecked, the ones who guard the thresholds of hope. Let us tend the fire not only for ourselves but for all those who have forgotten the way home.
And when they come—tired, uncertain, hesitant at the door—may we ask no questions but one: "Would you like to rest?" May we offer them not a reckoning but a place to breathe. May our presence be enough to remind them that love is still a language spoken here.
For this is what it means to be human—to light one another’s way, to hold high the lantern that whispers into the night:
"You are not alone. Come, friend, step toward the light."
BLESSING
Dear Friend,
May you stand as a quiet beacon in the deep of night, holding your lantern with steady hands, offering its glow to those who have wandered too long in darkness. May the light you carry be a shelter for the weary, a refuge for the lost, a gentle call to those who have forgotten the way home.
May your voice, lifted in kindness, reach the ears of those who have been silenced by sorrow. May your words fall softly into the hollows of their hearts, stirring within them the remembrance of warmth, the distant echo of belonging. May you be the one who does not turn away from the bruised and the broken, who does not ask where they have been or why they have come, but simply opens the door and says, “Rest here awhile.”
May the wild winds never steal the flame you bear, nor the weight of the world press so heavily upon you that you forget the beauty of your task. May you always remember that even the smallest light can pierce the deepest dark, that even the faintest glow can guide a lost soul home.
May you be blessed with the strength to keep watch, even when the night is long, even when the cold settles deep. May you know that you do not stand alone, that others, too, lift their lanterns into the unknown, calling out across the silence, forming a constellation of welcome in a world too often shrouded in shadow.
May your own heart never be without a home. May you always find a hearth that welcomes you, hands that reach for you, voices that call you beloved. And when the time comes for you to lay down your light, may you be met by a radiance greater than any you have known, by a love deeper than the depths of sorrow, by a warmth that enfolds you and whispers, “Come in, you are home at last.”
I love You,
Alma
