The Keeper's Daughter

1On a small island off the western coast of Taiwan stands a white stone lighthouse that no longer needs anyone to look after it. Its lamp now switches on by itself at sunset. Yet when Grandma A-hua talks about the lighthouse, she speaks of it as if it were a member of her family, because in a way, it was.

2A-hua's father was the lighthouse keeper for nearly twenty years. In those days, the light did not run itself. Every evening, her father climbed the narrow spiral stairs carrying fuel for the lamp, and every morning he polished the great glass lens until it shone. "A single fingerprint can weaken the light," he used to tell her. "And a weak light can cost a fisherman his life."

3As a child, A-hua found the job dull. While other children played on the beach, she was often sent up the tower with a soft cloth and a bucket of water. She complained constantly, and more than once she rushed through the cleaning so that she could run outside.

4Everything changed one stormy night when she was twelve. Her father had a high fever and could barely stand. The wind was howling, and somewhere out in the darkness, the island's fishing boats were trying to find their way home. Trembling, A-hua climbed the stairs alone, lit the lamp exactly as she had watched her father do a thousand times, and stayed beside it until dawn, wiping the salt spray from the windows.

5The next morning, every boat was safely back in the harbor. An old fisherman walked all the way up the hill to thank the keeper. When he learned who had really kept the light burning, he bowed deeply to the girl, which left her speechless.

6Today A-hua is eighty-three. The keepers have long been replaced by machines, but she still visits the lighthouse every week. "People think a light is just a light," she says. "But that night I learned that doing a small job carefully can matter more than you will ever know."