The Porch of His Presence

The Lantern at the Edge of the Garden

A Story of Light for Holy Week
by Sol Aisling

There was an old man who lived at the edge of a quiet village, tucked between the curve of a hill and a fading wood. His cottage was small and humble, but his garden—oh, his garden—was full of herbs and flowers and worn stone paths that curved like rivers.

At the far end of the garden stood a post, weathered and gray, and from it hung an old iron lantern. It had once burned brightly, a sign to neighbors that the man was home, a quiet invitation to come and sit for a while. He had tended that lantern faithfully through the years, lighting it each night at dusk and shielding it from the wind.

But time passed, and fewer visitors came. Many had moved on. Some had died. Others simply forgot. Still, he lit the lantern.

Then came a storm, fierce and sudden, on the evening of Good Friday. The wind howled like grief through the trees, and the rain fell like sorrow from a breaking heart. When the old man awoke Saturday morning and made his way to the garden, he found the lantern lying in the mud, shattered from the post. The glass was cracked, and the flame was long gone.

He stood for a long time in the gray morning drizzle. And he did not pick it up.

What is the point of a light no one sees?
What is the use of keeping a flame when the world grows colder anyway?

He returned inside, and left the garden untended that day.

But when Sunday morning came—early and golden—he felt something stir in him. A memory, a whisper, perhaps even a longing. He stepped into the garden barefoot, as he often had in years long past, the dew kissing his feet.

And there, at the far end, the lantern stood. Upright. Rehung. Its cracked glass somehow clear again. And within it—impossibly—burned a gentle, steady flame.

The old man blinked, unsure if he was dreaming. Then he noticed something more.

A child stood at the edge of the garden path. Barefoot. Smiling. A stranger, yet somehow familiar. The boy pointed to the lantern and said softly, “I saw it from far away.”

The man opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. His heart was full. A warmth stirred in him—not just from the light, but from what the light meant.

The light had been seen.
The flame had not been forgotten.
And it had not been his alone to keep.

He knelt beside the boy, tears and joy mingling like spring rain on his cheeks. The lantern flickered, not with the fragility of wax and wick, but with the strength of something eternal.

That morning, the garden seemed to bloom all at once.
Not just with flowers—but with hope.

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Reflection:

Good Friday teaches us about loss, sorrow, and the weight of silence. Easter Sunday reminds us that the light is never truly gone. Even when we cannot see it—even when we think it’s fallen and broken beyond repair—the flame of Christ’s love still burns. Sometimes, when we are too weary to relight it, grace does the lighting for us. And someone sees it—perhaps someone we don’t even know.

This week, may we trust that the light still shines in the garden. And that the garden, too, will bloom again.