I found a rock today. Nothing really remarkable about it. Fairly smooth, as if it‘s had to weather some things that have worn it down quite a bit. It has a couple of black scuff marks on it, as if it’s been kicked around or thrown under a few tires in it’s day. It was just sitting in the road, motionless, waiting for some outside force to act upon it.
I picked it up, and upon closer examination, I found something surprising. As I looked at it, turning it over in the palm of my hand, I realized: I have a lot in common with this rock. I know, weird, right?
As I looked at it, I noticed how many of the words that could describe this rock, could also be used to describe me. Solid. Scuffed. Flawed. Unforgiving. Stagnant. I’ve been all of these things at one time or another. But those only describe the rock as it’s lying in the middle of the road, motionless. As I picked it up and let it roll around in my palm, new thoughts sprung to mind.
See, in my hand, it could hardly keep still. Every slight motion of my hand moved the rock. It almost seemed alive, rolling with every slight twitch. Here it was, this scuffed, scarred, uneven rock that can’t do anything until it’s picked up, and then it seemingly comes to life. And I realized: that’s me. I, too, am scuffed and scarred, in ways that I don’t even realize, I’m sure. I’m certainly uneven in my life, often wavering and tossed about like a leaf on a wave. But, when I’m picked up by the hand of God, resting in the palm of His hand, I seem to come alive. I can’t keep still. And the flaws and black marks make no difference. It’s all useable and beautiful in the hand of a loving God. So that’s where I strive to be; resting in the hand of my Father, moving when He moves, resting when He rests.
My rock is going home with me. Just as a reminder of who I am and the life I really get to live.
I found a rock today. And it was a remarkable, beautiful thing.
