The Lantern of Harriet Tubman's Fearless Faith

The night was moonless and cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and whispers, turn back. But Harriet Tubman did not turn back. She never did. It was the winter of 1853, and Harriet moved through the Maryland woods like a shadow wrapped in prayer. Behind her followed seven people, their breath hanging in small clouds, their footsteps muffled by frozen leaves. They trusted her completely, and that trust felt heavier than any chain she had ever worn. One young man, Thomas, stumbled and gripped her sleeve. I cannot go on, he whispered. I am too afraid. Harriet turned to face him. Her eyes were steady as stars. I have been afraid every single night I have ever walked this road, she told him. But I pray, and then I move my feet. That is all faith requires. You move your feet. She had learned this truth years before, the night she first crossed into Pennsylvania alone and felt, she would later say, like I was in Heaven. But Heaven had not been enough when so many people remained behind. So she had returned, again and again, nineteen times in all, never once losing a passenger. She listened now, head tilted toward the dark tree line. Somewhere a dog barked. She pressed a hand to her heart, breathing a silent prayer, then pointed north toward the faint gleam of the North Star burning through a gap in the branches. That star is God's lantern, she murmured. It does not move. Neither shall we. Thomas straightened. One by one the others steadied themselves beside him. And together, guided by faith and an unblinking star, they walked on into the quiet, promising dark.