The Parable of the Lightkeeper

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, how lonely must space pioneers be, the only ones up there?  And how lonely must they be down here, the only ones who have been up there?”

Josh spoke thus:

There was a lighthouse that needed a keeper.  

“It is a hard life being a lightkeeper,” the new lightkeeper was told upon arrival.

“It’s a sturdy tower,” the lightkeeper said, “The winds will not knock it over.  The seas will not wash it away.  The rains will not wear it down.”

“The wind is no problem,” the new lightkeeper was told, “The seas are no worry.  The rains are merely rains.”

“I am not a hungry person,” the lightkeeper said, “A simple meal, a light meal, even a rare meal, is adequate for my needs.  Some bread, some clear water, on a treat day some fruit and some sugar.  My appetite is small and my tastes are simple.”

“Food is no problem,” the lightkeeper was told, “The stores are plentiful, and the wine barrels are full.”

“Wine is overly fine for me,” the lightkeeper said.

“All the same, there is wine,” the lightkeeper was told.

“Are there raiders, then?” the lightkeeper asked, “If the wind is not a threat, and the seas are not a danger, and the rain will do me no harm, if the stores are full, and the wine is plentiful, am I to be threatened by invaders?”

“No invaders have raided these shores in over a century,” the lightkeeper was told, “And those who last came were warded from the rocks by the light, and so they let the lightkeeper be.  It was bad policy to shade the light that saved them from the rocks.”

“No wind, no waves, no rain, no hunger, no thirst, no invaders,” the lightkeeper said, “This is no harsh life.”

“Then stay, and much happiness to you,” the lightkeeper was told, and the lightkeeper was left alone.

For seven years, the lightkeeper lived happily in the tower.  The winds blew, and the seas rose and fell, and the rains thrashed and subsided.  The food and wine were regularly replenished.  No raiders rumbled in from the sea, and no busy bodies bumbled up from the land.  For seven years the lightkeeper was content.

But after the seventh year, the lightkeeper wanted a wife.  And after the seventh year, the lightkeeper wanted a son.  And after the seventh year, the lightkeeper wanted the company of men.

And after seven years, the lightkeeper left the tower, found a wife, had a son, and kept the company of men.  Until one night the lightkeeper returned to the tower, climbed to its top, and threw himself off.

“Once you’ve known the wind,” the lightkeeper’s wife was told, “Once you’ve known the waves and the rain; once you’ve lived off plentiful stores and plentiful wine; once you’ve lived with the ghosts of raiders from the sea, any other life is too harsh to bear.”

“Leave my son and me to the ghosts, then,” the lightkeeper’s wife said, “I’ll be the lightkeeper now.”  And she was the lightkeeper, and she still is.