little star

I have never been a superstar on the world’s grand stage. My life is not adorned with medals, nor have I ever worn the glittering garlands that now seem to be the currency of children’s worth—tokens to measure their talents and skills. I never stood atop any podium, crowned as champion of singing contests or spelling bees. I wandered through the quiet corners of declamation contests in high school and Bible trivias in college, but my footprints were light—mere participation, leaving behind no trace, not even a certificate.

As the seasons turned and I grew, I learned to see medals not as gold to be mined, but as fleeting shadows dancing on the wall. Perseverance was the quiet forge of my abilities; effort was my compass, not applause. When I finished grade school with honors, there were no parades—no trumpets blaring in celebration. When I earned high marks in my Masters, the joy was a hidden ember, glowing gently in the ashes of my own quiet satisfaction.

Now, as I tend to young minds, nurturing their growth like a gardener with tender seedlings, I occasionally find myself dangling rewards—stickers and “good jobs”—like shiny lures for a fleeting sense of accomplishment. But I pause and wonder: am I teaching them to chase after glimmering tokens, or to seek the deeper roots of purpose and perseverance?

When these children step into the labyrinth of adulthood, will they wander lost, searching for the next sticker, the next “well done”? I never decorated my walls with medals, nor did I ever have the chance. Still, I grew—undaunted and whole. There is, however, one small star that I hold dear—the guiding light from above.

Much like the journey of the Three Wise Kings, led by a single star through the silent night, I choose to follow that gentle flicker of faith. One day, that little star will fade and wink out. When it does, it will mean my journey here is done—and I will find myself resting at last in the radiant presence of the greatest Star of all.