In a town where the winds howled and shadows stretched long across cobblestone streets, lived a quiet lantern keeper named Mara. She lit the town’s lanterns each night, ensuring warmth and light reached every corner. Yet, few truly saw her. Mara was always kind, always smiling—but behind that smile was a weariness no one noticed.
Each day she wore a mask: brave, helpful, cheerful. She believed showing pain would burden others, so she tucked her sadness away.
One evening, a fierce storm rolled in. Mara lit each lantern as usual, but the rain extinguished them almost as fast. Frustrated and drenched, she collapsed beneath an old willow and sobbed—not from exhaustion, but from the ache of hiding her truth for so long.
In that moment, an old man approached. His clothes were simple, his eyes kind. “Why cry in the rain?” he asked gently.
Mara hesitated, then answered, “Because no one sees me when I’m not smiling.”
The man nodded, sitting beside her. “Perhaps they would, if you let them.”
“But… what if they turn away?” she whispered.
He smiled. “What if they come closer?”
He pulled from his coat a lantern unlike any she’d seen—glowing not with fire, but with a soft, golden light. “This,” he said, “is the light of compassion. It only shines when shared honestly.”
He handed it to her. As she touched it, warmth spread through her chest. She felt seen—not for her duty, but for her soul.
From that day, Mara changed. She still lit lanterns, but now she shared her truth gently with others. She wept when she needed to. She laughed from the heart. And she listened—truly listened—when others spoke their own truths.
To her surprise, more people came forward, sharing burdens and blessings alike. The town grew softer. More loving. And lanterns stayed lit, not just with flame, but with the quiet glow of compassion shared.
Mara’s light never dimmed again—because she had finally let it shine from within.
audio version:
Service Reflection
