“Light Man” by Duane L. Herrmann

Photo by Duane L. Hermmann

He was a gentle man. Even as a boy, he was known as gentle. He respected plants and the Earth they grew on. He was kind to animals who would instinctively seek him out for the care and compassion they knew they would receive from him. People knew they could come to him for comfort, even adults when he was small, not realizing they were seeking him out for that. Other children turned intuitively to him without a thought. 

He worked hard. As a boy he helped others as well as doing his own chores. His mother was often ill, so he took on much of her role in caring for younger siblings and the house. His adult jobs were never easy, but then, he did not recognize or seek out the “easy.” He simply did what needed to be done.

He married, raised a family, and never stopped caring for and assisting others. His children took his efforts for granted. Of course, Daddy would do it. Daddy did those things for you. They didn’t realize how much his example would later guide them in their own lives. They, too, would go on to do things simply because they needed to be done

He saved many lives, some physically, from drowning, or fire, or accidents; mostly, though, he saved their souls by his gently supportive encouragement. His was a presence that uplifted and encouraged others. Every life he touched, he encouraged and uplifted. His acts of kindness rippled through countless lives.

Decades passed. He grew older, weak and frail. He did not stop, but he moved more slowly as he continued to simply do what he felt needed to be done.

He was living with a son who had invited the rest of the family over one night. The man was happy. He liked to see all of his family together: his children, their spouses and all their children. He was grateful to know they enjoyed being with one another.

 “I want to talk to all of you,” the man eventually said to his family.  “But, I’m feeling more tired than I can remember and must lie down.  Will you all come into my room?”

The old man lay on top of his bed as his bewildered family, with questions in their minds, crowded into his room and waited.

“I want you each to know that I love you very much,” he began. “I have tried to be helpful and some few times I think I have succeeded, but many times I failed. I am so very sorry for that. If I could have done more, I certainly wish I had done so. But I also know that each person has to make their own effort; no one can do it for them.” He paused to gather his breath.

“I can do no more,” he said finally when some had grown fidgety from waiting. “I must leave you and go home.” At this, several exchanged curious glances. He was home, or had he forgotten where he lived? Was he becoming senile? No one would have been surprised at that.

“I don’t belong here,” he stated after another pause. “But then, neither do any of you. You are unaware of that, and I’m sorry if I kept it a secret, but I never knew when a good time would be to tell you. Now is my last chance.” He paused again to catch his breath. Everyone was listening now, he had their full attention.

“We, everyone of you, belong to a place that is not of this world,” he said slowly and more softly. “We belong to a place where there is no pain, no sickness, where there are no limits, where love is the operating force, not greed. We could be called angels, and some have mistaken us for that, yet…” He paused again, but longer, more thoughtful. “Maybe they were right.” His breathing had slowed and was more shallow than before.

 Some in the room seemed to see his skin become thinner, translucent, and take on a soft glow. Most who noticed this dismissed it as a trick of the light. It was late afternoon and the light was changing. They were not used to the light in this room.

 “Within us is a Light that is greater than we can imagine,” he said at last. “This Light is what endures, even beyond our deeds, which are our lasting memorials. You must strive to let this Light shine into the world without drawing attention to it.” He paused to breathe some more, yet more slowly.

 “This, I have tried to do,” he resumed. “Nothing else is worth doing.”

As he spoke the room began to fill with a Light that everyone noticed. It was not imagination that he was glowing. The Light around him was brighter than the light from outside.

 “Remember the Light,” he said. “Allow it to shine in all that you do. The Light is all that is important.”

 The Light was now brighter and brighter.

 “Remember the Light,” he whispered, then fell silent.

The Light was now so bright, it was difficult to see his form on the bed. Many had to raise their hands to shield their eyes. They did not know what was happening. They could not think. This was not a normal occurrence. Their brains could not process the information they were seeing. It did not make sense. The brightness of the Light filled the room so that many had to close their eyes. Even when closed, they could still see the brilliance.

“I love you. Good bye.”

They heard these words in their hearts and minds, not their ears. The Light intensified to an almost painful degree and then, suddenly, was gone.

“What…?” “Where…?” “Wha…?” Confusion, bewilderment and dim light filled the room.

People looked around in amazement. The old man was gone. The bed was empty. All that remained was a small glow in the center of the bed which slowly disappeared. A Light had truly gone out of the world.

 “Thou art My light.”

* Bahá’í scriptures

Copyright © 2023 Duane L. Herrmann

All Rights Reserved

With degrees in Education and History, Duane L. Herrmann has work published in print and online, in fifty-plus anthologies, over one hundred other publications (Gonzo Press, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Page and Spine, etc), plus a sci fi novel, eight collections of poetry, a local history, stories for children, a book on fasting and other works, despite an abusive childhood with dyslexia, ADHD, cyclothymia, an anxiety disorder, a form of Mutism, and now, PTSD.  

Editor: Barbara Harris Leonhard 

@BarbaraLeonhar4

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