Poetry

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Just A Stone. Or Is It?
One of my most favorite things to do
is spend time at the ocean.
I am not that much into the water
or the sun bathing - but I can spend hours
digging for rocks. - not just any rock -
but I am drawn towards the flat rocks.
The ones that will fit into the palm of your hands -
and as I hold these and look at these -
I can't help but think about how that small rock
was once a larger piece -
off a fabulous mountain somewhere -
how far it may have traveled - from sea to shining sea.
How the oceans beat upon that mountain
until a chunk finally gave way -
and then worked over - through the ages by the sand,
the coral, the other rocks, the waves, the storms.
Until finally nestled in the sand -
and dug out by someone like me
who admires and cherishes what it went through
to get to be the piece of beauty it is today.
I have jars full of these small rocks.
I think I relate to these small rocks in a odd way -
the Master polishes and grinds -
the fire is necessary -
the purification process is mandatory.
The hope is in the Glory that we will know when we worship at His feet.
3/29/05

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