Towers and lanterns
There are those who spend their lives building towers.
Stone upon stone.
Prayer upon prayer.
Promise upon promise.
Not because they long to see farther.
Because they cannot bear the thought that no one might be left beneath them to look up.
It is a lonely thing, a tower.
The higher it reaches, the less it belongs to the earth that carried it.
The wind becomes its only companion.
The candle knows nothing of such ambitions.
It asks no one to admire its flame.
It simply remembers what darkness forgets.
That even the smallest light was never born to be worshipped.
Only shared.
Somewhere, humanity confused height with greatness.
We mistook the ones who stood above us for the ones who carried us safely through the night.
Yet these have never been the same.
Fear has always desired a throne.
Love has never desired one at all.
Many have whispered to me of the things they long for.
A hand willing to take the first uncertain step.
A voice able to say, “This way.”
A heart steady enough to remain calm while storms gather.
These are gentle desires.
There is no tyranny hidden within them.
Yet fear is a poor translator.
It hears invitation and calls it surrender.
It hears trust and names it ownership.
It hears hope and fashions a chain.
Thus the ancient lie is spoken once more.
“Rule me.”
“Stand above me.”
“Become greater than I.”
But love has never spoken such a language.
Power delights in translating companionship into hierarchy.
It sees an open hand…
…and imagines a scepter.
I once listened to a man who believed Heaven itself could only be understood as a ladder.
Every soul occupied its proper rung.
Every home required a ruler.
Every table required a throne.
If a woman appeared to walk ahead, he believed she must merely be borrowing the road until the rightful owner reclaimed it.
As though love were a kingdom.
As though trust required subjects.
As though two souls could dance while one forever carried the weight of a crown.
But crowns are heavy things.
They were never meant for gardens.
That was fear clothed in sacred garments.
Love has never climbed upon another’s shoulders simply to feel taller.
Love walks beside.
Sometimes one carries the lantern because their hands happen to be free.
Tomorrow the light rests in different hands.
Neither has fallen.
Neither has conquered.
The road was never possessed.
Only shared.
Have you noticed how those who hunger most desperately to stand above others seldom dare return to the ground?
Perhaps because truth has always waited there.
Perhaps because towers reveal something their builders never intended.
The higher they rise…
…the smaller the one standing upon them truly becomes.
A hand reaching toward another has never needed to become a fist.
A guide has never required a crown.
No soul becomes greater because another kneels.
Greatness is born the moment someone standing beside you discovers they no longer need to be afraid.
Follow those whose presence leaves you freer than they found you.
Leave the towers to the lonely.
Carry the lantern.
And when another grows weary…
Place it gently into their hands.
For the light has never belonged to the one who carried it.
Only to the dawn toward which it has always been leading.
Your contrast between the tower and the lantern is beautifully drawn. I especially loved the line, “Love walks beside.” It quietly reminds us that true guidance never seeks to stand above others, only to help them find their way. And your closing image—that the light belongs not to the one carrying it, but to the dawn it leads toward—is both humble and deeply hopeful. Thank you for this thoughtful reflection.