We were at my parents’ place on the Jersey shore. It was a Sunday afternoon.
My husband, Anthony, was watching a ballgame on TV, two-year-old Genevieve was taking a nap and four-year-old Grace was turning the pages of a book. Peace and quiet for once. The perfect time for me to get ready for the drive home. Do a load of laundry, clean up the kitchen, put the girls’ stuff away, pack the car. Maybe I’d even get to that stack of papers I had to grade (I’m a high school teacher).
Then I looked out the window at the clear blue sky of a glorious September day. I should take Grace to the lighthouse, I thought. Something I’d been promising to do for months, ever since I cut out that newspaper article about the Barnegat Lighthouse’s 150th anniversary: “Barnegat’s guiding light to get a new shine…” That clipping was still on the bulletin board at home, half-covered with school notices and coupons. It seemed there was always something that got in the way.
I remember the first time my father took me to see Old Barney. I was five. I held his hand as we climbed the spiral staircase. I counted each and every one of the 217 steps. By the time we got to the top, both of us were breathless. Dad lifted me up so I could see over the wall. I gazed at the island stretching out in miniature far below and at the sunlight on water, sparkling as if someone had spilled a whole jar of glitter on it. I felt small and large at the same time.
I looked again at the stack of papers and the dishes in the sink, then at Grace in her sandals, pink pants and red-and-white striped shirt. I’d been telling her about the lighthouse for weeks. Now was our chance. The papers and housework could wait.
I went over to Grace. “Let’s go to the lighthouse,” I said.
“Just you and me, Mommy?”
“Just you and me.”
“Genevieve’s too young to climb the stairs, right?”
“Right.”
“I think I can do it, don’t you, Mommy?” she said.
“I know you can.”
I grabbed my camera, and 10 minutes later we were parked in the lot at Barnegat Lighthouse State Park. A half-marathon had just ended and runners were getting hugs and snapshots. Fishermen cast their lines into the inlet and couples strolled along the jetty, everyone soaking in the sunshine.
I pointed out to Grace the statue of Lieutenant George Meade, who built Old Barney in the late 1850s (and later as a general gained fame for defeating Robert E. Lee’s forces at Gettysburg). Then the two of us entered the base of the dark, cool lighthouse.
Voices echoed above. Grace walked in front of me, holding on to the railing. The steps were painted yellow and worn from so many people walking up them. At 30 steps there was an alcove. Grace and I stopped to rest. I held her up to see the water below. “Look, a boat!” she said. She traced her finger along the glass as the boat slid out from the bay into the ocean, its wake a V spreading behind it.
We kept climbing. The thick brick walls blocked out all noise and I noticed that people were whispering as though we were in a church. Indeed there was something holy about this place, something peaceful and comforting in its stillness.
“Mommy, I can see the top,” Grace exclaimed. She pointed to the light above and walked faster, taking me by the hand. “We’re almost there!”
A minute later we were out in the bright sunshine, high above the boats in the inlet and the houses on the island. I had to catch my breath as I had many years before, but this time not only because of the long climb up to the top. The sea shimmered and sparkled in the sun, and the sky rose up from the horizon in a blanket of blue.
Some places from childhood disappoint when you visit them years later. Not this one. Old Barney was just as wonderful as I had remembered, but now I was the parent here with my child.
“Look!” I said, lifting Grace up so she could see over the wall. I could feel her heart beating against mine.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“And you walked all the way up by yourself,” I said.
“Mommy, take my picture!”
I set her down and she stood in front of the wall, the cerulean sky and sea behind her. I clicked a shot and then asked another visitor to take a picture of the two of us, as if I wouldn’t remember this day forever, the way you hold on to these memories of what’s most precious in God’s world.
There would be other days when I’d feel overwhelmed by work and the challenges of raising two girls, but I’d always be able to draw on this incredible blessing.
On the way down Grace asked me if I could carry her. I didn’t mind. I knew that soon there would come a time when she would be too big to be carried or too independent. But right now this was our moment.
Two hundred and seventeen steps later, we were down in the parking lot. I looked back at Old Barney, standing steady above the water, its light a beacon for sailors for over 150 years, its very presence a comfort to all who gazed on it, even an overscheduled, overworked mom.
Any place that reminds you of the gifts God has given is a sacred place.
