The Story That Wrote Me

I have a story to write; I have a tale to tell. 

With pencil sharp and page untouched, I wait in silence for the words to come. 

The words arrive, not with fanfare, blaring trumpets, or birds chirping their cheerful songs; they come as a gentle breeze that brushes my cheek like my mother’s kiss. 

The first word is “hope.” The second is “journey.” The third is “lantern.” I put pencil to paper and begin to weave each new word into a tapestry of lore. 

Hans, a young, weary traveler, carries an empty lantern through the dark forest path, lost and all alone. The leaves of the trees rustle in his ears, whispering words of failure and forgotten dreams. He stumbles in near blackness; the lantern giving no light to guide the way.  

A sound of movement gives way to the dim shape of another traveler stumbling down the trail close by. “Hello, my name is Hans!” he calls out. “I have no oil in my lamp, but you can come with me. Hold my hand and we will find our way together.” 

The stranger replies, “Nice to meet you Hans, my name is Engel. Yes, I will travel with you.” He grasps Han’s outstretched hand, his hand cold but his grip steady, and they continue down the dark path together.

They walk and share small talk. Hans notices a dim light glowing in the lantern he is holding. He gasps and stops in his tracks. “There’s a light in my lamp!” he exclaims, “and I don’t know how it could be!”  

“Yes, there is,” Engel agrees. “Maybe you had more oil than you thought.” 

“But even if there was some oil, I didn’t light it. How could this happen?” 

“Maybe an angel?” said Engel. “Magic? Who knows? But what I do know is that I can see the path better than before; let’s go while the light still shines.”

They walk for a while and soon meet another lost person stumbling in the dark, then another, and another, until there are six. They join Hans and Engel and continue the journey together, holding hands, single file. With each new traveler, the lantern grows brighter as it lights the path ahead for all to see.  

Finally, the band of lost travelers breaks through the edge of the forest, the lights of the village twinkling warmly in the distance. Like the lamp in his hand that shines like the breaking dawn, Han’s heart shines bright with the sunrise of hope. 

The truth dawns with startling clarity. The destination is not the destination at all, but a journey to becoming a better man—a man of compassion, kindness, and care—helping other sojourners along the way, down the pathway of life.

I set down my pencil on the notepad and smile. It’s a good start. The story’s not done, but the beginning of a greater story of self-discovery and growth. A story I need to write that is, perhaps, the story of me as well.