Stones We Hold Dear

Stones we hold dear lie scattered at the head of every street.

Just inside the vestibule, on the other side of the single wooden window within our wall of precious stones, five hand-selected stones are lifted, way up high.  So that most who enter our home walk past them, not noticing.  But there they stand, with a story... mortared into place. Individual stones, stacked.  One on top another...together.  I remember the day the stones were set in place.  Intentionally set.  To establish.  A home.  And a family.  To tell.  A story.  Our story.  Set in stone.

Whether or not a story is told, the story stands in place, mortared in time.  We can all reach back in time and touch stories.  Not told.  We can all reach back,  just to once again feel stories, set in stone - that we might be able to remember.  And know.  It was real.  We were there.  Our story.  My family's story.  My story.  Is stacked, stone upon stone.  Set in stone.  That cries out of the wall.  Of Hope. Dashed.  Promises. Broken.  A Family.  Shattered.  Stones.  Scattered. At the head of every street.  Stones we hold dear that cry out of the wall.  Woe...

I have to stand up on my toes and reach high to rub my hand across the stones.  Rough and dusty, they leave their mark on my palm.  I think back on my naivety the day they were mortared into place.  They cried out from the wall even then.  Woe.  Spewing rough dust, of shame.    Marking our palms, with Pain.  I think back on my not knowing.  What was coming.  That this home, built on dreams, would be crushed - under the weight of Pain.  That we would need to run and hide.  Under a dark blanket of shame.  That passersby would look upon us and shake their heads.  At Pain, we do not handle well. (Because Pain pushes us Over the Edge.) At Shame, we can not carry. (But still we are Sent Away Into The Wilderness to carry it, but we are not goats.)  That people of our city would look down on this house so high up on a hill.  Look down on it as our private parts are uncovered for all to see.  That we would see such spewing, of rough dust, that leaves scars on our palms.  Scars.  Of Pain. I think back.  And hear the stones cry.  Woe...

I feel such a sense of sadness for myself, the one back there in the story of placing the stones.  She was so confident, scattering smiles.  Because this home and this family, like the stones, were mortared into place.  Set in stone.  Once and for all.  I grieve for her.  Because she didn't know... her face that scattered smiles would one day look and see the stones she holds dear... lie scattered.  At the head of every street.  She didn't know, of the violence of the land, of the city, and of those that dwell therein.  I mourn for her.  As do the stones.  As they cry.  With her.  Woe...

I feel such a sense of relief for myself, the one back there who was placing stones in our precious wall.  I am so happy for her that she had no idea what was coming.  I smile for her.  That she scattered smiles, when she had smiles to spare.  I am so happy for her, that her palms had not yet been marked.  Scarred.  With Pain.  Baring Pain that would scatter the smiles from her face as far as the east is from the west.  Baring Pain that would set her out on a journey, of Pain, from the wings of the morning to the far side of the sea where the stones she holds dear lie scattered.  At the head of every street.  I am so thankful she did not know what was coming.  All the Pain.  Because if she had, she would have given up then and not persevered and laid the stones in our precious wall, with Hope.  Because the stones would not be mortared, in Beauty.  But the stones, that she so carefully selected... they knew.  And cried out from the wall.  The stones.  We hold dear.  Know.  And cry out from the wall.  Woe.  And the wood, in the windows and the floors and the doors, answers.

Be Strong

Remember

Stretch Your Tent Wide

With Hope

Stones We Hold Dear

Baring Pain

Baring Beauty

Are Still Here

Mortared

Together

To Remind Us

These wounds

Will Heal

So be strong

And remember

Scarred palms tell stories

Of Love

Of when God so loved the world He stretched His Tent wide

from the wings of the morning

to the far side of the sea

Where stones He holds dear lie. still. scattered

so leave

Space

For Grace Upon Grace

Aloha Upon Aloha

And wait

for

Waves of Mercy

Baring Beauty

Just inside the vestibule, on the other side of the single wooden window, just to the right as you come through the wooden front doors, five hand-selected stones are lifted high and mortared into place with a story.  Set in stone.  Way up high, most walk past them without noticing.  But there they stand.  Individual stones, stacked one on top another.  And if I stand on my toes and reach way up high, I can touch them.  Where they stand.  Crying out.  That I might reach back and hold onto their story.  For as long as I need, just to be with it - and know.  I was there.  Where a family wasn't yet shattered.  By Beauty.  Our stones.  Not yet scattered.  By Pain.  If I stand on my toes and reach up high, I can touch it.  And know.  And it helps me remember.  To be strong.  Leave space.  And wait...

And every time I do... Reach out and touch our story set in stone. I remember, and more of the rough and dusty story comes with me.  And I see.  A palm.  Scarred.  With Love.  And I remember.  Who I am and where I've been and that my story is real.  And the stones we hold dear in our precious wall, they are a witness unto me, unto us.  Of Hope.  Never dashed.  Of Promises.  That remain.  Of a Family.  Never shattered.  Stones.  Scattered at the head of every street.  Still. Stand.  Here.  Baring Beauty.  

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