When I was young, I remember there were certain times of the year when my teacher would send home a thin-papered, two- or three-paged catalog filled with books and books and books. And we were allowed to pick out one or two books, filling out that flimsy order sheet and carrying it back to school filled with a sense of anticipation that started as soon as I’d turned in my order. I can’t remember if it took days or weeks or months for those new books to arrive, but when they did, it was like Christmas because they were mine, mine to keep.
Some of the offerings in those pages of books included paperback options that included a 45 record and was advertised as a read aloud because you could put that small record on your record player and read along with the book; at the end of every page a bell sounded, letting you know it was time to turn the page. In my bedroom I had a small record player perfect for playing 45s and as soon as I received my new book and record, I would settle myself in a cozy spot and listen to a faraway voice read me the story in my hands. One of the stories I still remember is The Little Red Lighthouse and the Great Gray Bridge by Hildegarde Swift. This was such a favorite story we shared it with our girls when they were toddlers.
If you’re not familiar with this book, it tells the story of a small round red lighthouse who feels the importance of his role as he stands at the edge of the Hudson River. Each night the lighthouse keeper comes and switches on the little red lighthouse’s light and he stands tall and proud, warning of the danger along the shore to whatever boats pass by. On foggy days, the lighthouse keeper winds a clock connected to a bell so that there is a warning bell to accompany the lighthouse’s consistently flashing light. All is well for the small lighthouse—until a new bridge is built over him and he stands in the shadow of a great gray bridge. In the shadow of the bridge, the lighthouse questions his usefulness.
This story came back to me recently because my husband gave me a calendar for Christmas showcasing lighthouses and this month’s art deco poster-style calendar page is none other than the actual Little Red Lighthouse, also known as Jeffrey’s Hook Lighthouse on the Hudson River. As a New England girl, I am partial to the ocean and to lighthouses.
As I consider the art deco illustration and recall the story of the lighthouse and the great gray bridge, I can’t help but think about the ways my teenagers tend to respond to their own usefulness and abilities. I suppose I cannot help but see each of my girls in the little red lighthouse because when kids, including my girls, are young, they have the kind of pride and self-esteem the lighthouse exemplifies in the story. He knows without any doubt that he is useful and helpful and he feels very, very proud. But, as we grow older, and as I have seen in my two girls, we lose some of that sense of worth and confidence. In fact, we begin to doubt if what we do matters at all; are we as good at something as we once believed, we wonder.
In the story, once the great gray bridge, which towers over the small lighthouse, is lit up and his beacon of light streaks overhead, lighting up the night sky, the lighthouse believes he is no longer necessary. He worries he will be torn down or otherwise abandoned. The light in which he’d once had such confidence and that once made him feel proud instead feels small in comparison to the obvious bigness and brightness of the new bridge in whose shadow the lighthouse feels he lives now.
Of course, as a grown up now, I understand immediately that both are needed in the place where they are. But, as a kid, I often felt like that little red lighthouse living in the shadow of that bridge—in the shadow of my brother or of the kids at school who were cooler than me or of my parents who didn’t always express confidence in my abilities. And, so, I am keenly aware of my own teenagers and their doubts, the uncertainty they sometimes have that matches that of the small lighthouse. I sense their wavering. I hear them questioning their abilities. I watch them measuring themselves, comparing themselves to others.
And, like the story, I speak truth like the great gray bridge:
Little brother, where is your light…
you are still master of the river. Quick, let your light shine again. Each to his own place, little brother!
Each to their own place. We each bring unique and different gifts and skills to the world where we are, and the world needs each of us to do our part. There are no small parts. We all matter. Until these two remarkable young women see that for themselves, I am their great gray bridge, reminding them to shine their lights where they are because there are people who need their light. In fact, I am one of those people who needs their light, and I am grateful to have their light in my life each day.