The Keeper of the Lantern

In a small, windswept village by the sea, there stood an ancient lighthouse, its beam cutting through the thickest storms. For centuries, it had been tended by a family sworn to keep its flame alive. The last of this lineage was a girl named Eucharia

Eucharia had grown up hearing stories of her ancestors, who had braved the fiercest tempests to ensure the light never failed. The people believed that as long as the lighthouse shone, the village would be safe from the wrath of the sea.

One winter night, a storm unlike any before rolled in. The waves crashed violently against the cliffs, and the wind howled through the town like a beast unchained. As Eucharia climbed the spiral steps of the lighthouse, she noticed something terrible—the great lantern’s flame had flickered to its last breath.

Panic surged in her heart. The oil reserves were nearly empty, and the winds were too strong to send anyone for more. She thought of the sailors out at sea, relying on that light to guide them home. She thought of the villagers, terrified in their beds.

And then, she remembered her mother’s words: “Faith is not about knowing the path—it is about walking it anyway.”

With trembling hands, Eucharia gathered what little oil remained and whispered a prayer. She lit the lantern, but she knew it wouldn’t last till dawn.

So she did the only thing she could. She knelt before the flame, shielding it with her hands, her body, her very soul. She prayed as the storm raged on, believing, against all reason, that the light would hold.

Hours passed. The winds screamed, the rain battered the windows—but the lantern did not die. Not until the storm had passed, not until the first golden rays of dawn touched the sea.

The villagers found her there, exhausted but victorious, the light still flickering in the glass chamber. None could explain how the flame had endured so long on so little oil. But in their hearts, they knew the truth.

Faith had kept the light alive.
✍🏼 @emmanuelbrownugo
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