Skipping Stones


July 14, 2014

Skipping Stones

I am standing with my children in the bed of river rocks that have been broken and smoothed to flat disks, millennia wearing away the rough places. My daughter gathers stones and skips them along the shallow surface. As I dip my hand into the river to retrieve a couple pebbles, I see the stones I wear on my left ring finger, glistening in the creek. They are new and old, ancient in their creation and recently purchased by my husband of ten years. Five are on my wedding band—diamonds I deemed “stones of remembrance” after we married. Stones like the Israelites carried through and across the Jordan, stones the children could see later and ask, “What do these stones mean?” Back then, I thought, Faith. Hope. Love.

It has been a decade. Now, the new engagement ring he purchased to replace the cubic zirconium look-alike shines with other meaning. These days, I say yes, faith, yes, hope, yes, love, but also grace, mercy, redemption, the way the river’s rushing floodwaters polish the ragged edges, the way that liquid smoothes granite, the way you can hold something so dense in your hand and with a gentle flick of the wrist cast it away, to either sink with a plunk to the bottom or send it dancing and skipping across the water, touching the surface for a single second, then lifting again, a train of ripples spreading out behind.


Photo "Skipping Stones" provided by Maureen Sill, via Flickr creative commons license.

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