Once There Was a Rock

Once there was a rock. The rock didn't know it was a rock, or where it had come from, but it knew it was different from the plants, animals, sand, and seas that constantly shifted in and out of view. The rock knew it was stationary and immovable, and that all these transitory things weren't. It observed their fleeting nature and even saw the demise of some. It slowly began to define itself by what it wasn't. As it sat (as it always did) pondering the life that teemed around it, it had an epiphany: As the wind and rain come, and all other things take shelter, some even succumbing to the terrible tempest…the plants’ wilt and the animals die…I am not moved out of my place here on this cliff overlooking the sea. I am steadfast. I remain through thick and thin. I am a sentinel. I am eternal. I must be a rock.

Time passed. The rock stood still. And the rock was safe. But as the rock watched the other things in its world come and go, it began to feel lonely and wondered what it would be like to experience things like love and fear, growth and decline, life and death. And it wanted someone to share its thoughts with. Weighing its options, the rock decided to try something new...something dangerous. It began to vibrate. Ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly at first, something sovereign was coming to life. No one else noticed, but the rock began to wiggle. Then the rock began to move. And one autumn evening, with the help of a stiff northeasterner, the rock broke free and rolled off the cliff. (This is where the squeamish need to stop reading.)

Night came. All was still. Life along the sea went on as usual. The light of the coming dawn revealed that below the cliff, on a bluff overlooking the shore, were a hundred small stones that had not been there the night before. With the warming sun, each stone began to awaken. Each felt a stirring deep within that somehow it had been part of something bigger, something great, something steadfast and immovable. Although the awakening was foggy and the memory fragmented, these small stones somehow knew that they were safe, that they were important, that they were eternal. With these sentiments, each stone, one by one, reached the same conclusion: We are a foundation to the trees and plants and little animals. They may come and go, changing with the seasons and years, but we remain. We must be stones.

More time passed. The stones stood still. They were safe. They were comfortable. One day however, they began to sense that something was missing. They felt that there must be more purpose to their stonehood than sitting in one place year after year. They began to wonder what it would be like to come and go as they please the way the little birds do, and what it must be like to swim in the nearby ocean. These feelings seemed to crowd out their contentment, and their yearnings became stronger. One night, as if in a coordinated effort to challenge destiny, the little stones began to vibrate in unison. And then they began to wiggle. (Bet you can guess what happened next. You are right…more blood and guts.)

It took several days, but one by one the little stones rolled off the bluff to the waiting strand below. They were no longer stones but pebbles now. Thousands of them. And of course, each tiny pebble felt safe in its place and grand in its appointment…until. As the little band of pebbles began their dance to freedom, the great waves of the sea took notice. And as if on cue, one night the waves breached the bank and swallowed the pebbles up. (Sorry, I should have given you more warning.)

And so over the years, the powers of nature rolled the little pebbles back and forth, back and forth across the great sea until they became tiny grains of sand. A gazillion of them. And they looked back with their tiny eyes at the solid land, and at the tiny pebbles and small stones and great rocks and wished they could stop being tossed to and fro and settle somewhere, somehow. But alas, it was too late. And so to this day there are tiny particles of sand on every beach of the earth, wanting to be great rocks, and great rocks in every nook and cranny of the earth wanting to be tiny particles of sand. The one wanting to experience life, and the other, having experienced life, wanting to be safe and steadfast once again. (You decide the moral of this story…I'm going to bed.)

(Two years later I awoke from my slumber and knew I had to finish the story. I mean, the very fate of these brave little nomads hung in my head and on my pen. How could I leave them to chance?) And so…

Time went on as each tiny grain of sand flailed against the elements with all its might, day after day, and year after year for what seemed like an eternity (because it was), only to gain little ground, the waves too strong, the current too severe…too persistent…too absolute. “We are tired” whimpered the now spent, minuscule granules. “We are too weak to go on…our dream has proven our demise, our wanderlust a fool's errand.” Too proud to end up just another abandoned silicon carcass on an obscure beach, each little grain of sand in a resigned but noble manner, swallowed its draught of water and silently headed to the bottom of the sea to meet its fate. (A pause for you to grab a Kleenex.)

All is still. All is quiet. The dream of rockdom now only faint…distant…belonging to another Life. Finally, one by one, each grain of sand closed its weary little eyes and gave up the ghost…a final exhale settling across the dark ocean floor. (I have more Kleenex if you need it.)

But…unbeknownst to our little waterlogged sedimental (that's a play on words) friends, fate is kind to those who dream, and a bright and brilliant redemption (literally) beyond their wildest imagination lay silently waiting nearby. Through an unnoticeable yet providential shift in the undertow…just a fraction of a wiggle from somewhere deep within the earth, a lone, stray ripple rolled these gallant little Lilliputians into the warm, open mouths of…a thousand friendly oysters.

The End.

(And you were so worried.)

And now the moral of the story: They say there is a storm that never ends…on your last day on earth, the person you've become meets the person you could have become. It is a timeless debate, to follow one's dreams or to avoid risk and settle…the eternal struggle between head and heart. The head may get us safely from point a to point b, but it's the heart that makes the journey worthwhile. We define our lives not by the routine or mundane, not our stone-cold tenure, but by the high points…the moments of exultation, the glimpses of a vista far away to which, however unattainable now, we set our course and fill our sails…a renewal of purpose which marks the turning points of our journey.

Fate favors ambition…nothing great was ever accomplished while hiding safe and sound behind a rock. To those who dare, valor is their guide and providence their companion. I don't fault the stoic old stones for standing still. They may have been understandably tired, or discouraged, or even complacent (the most fatal of all). But how many of them will ever know what it's like to adorn the neck of a beautiful woman, or sleep in a satin-lined box, or be prized by men the world over? Whether a shiny round gem, a wise insight, or a valuable accomplishment, every pearl is the result of faith, vision, struggle, and hard work…a lifetime of searching and discovery which may for some, be the pearl itself.

(Goodnight for reals…and good luck on your journey!)

TestifyofChrist

April-2015