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When I was in high school, and well into my twenties, my mother would leave a light on when I went out at night.
In my twenties, when I went out with friends, my sister was often with me, and we didn’t always get home until the wee hours of the morning. No matter how late it was, we would pull into the driveway and see the lamp burning in our home’s hallway.
It wasn’t meant for
the world to see.
It was meant for us.
I would quietly tiptoe into the house, careful not to make a sound. But as I climbed the stairs to my room, I would hear it — her soft sigh. A sigh of relief. She was awake enough to know we were home safely.
That light said
everything she didn’t need to put into words.
You’re safe.
You’re home.
You’re loved.
In Caitlin’s Star, children and families are invited to reflect on the Special Jobs the people they love once did and the things that made them them. Not grand titles or careers, but the quiet roles they played so faithfully in our lives.
When I think about my mother’s Special Job, I don’t think of anything formal or extraordinary.
I think of that light.
Her Special Job was
being the one who stayed awake just long enough.
The one who left the light on.
The one who watched over the night.
And when I imagine
her now, I picture her doing the same thing —
a beacon,
a North Star,
welcoming one and all home.
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