The Stone Hearts

We all walked a little hunched against the broody gray sky, reflexive defenses against the raindrops that had not yet fallen. All thirty of us tumbled out of cars, lunches and rain boots akimbo. We made our way to the river where the second graders would wave goodbye to their tiny fish: Room 12’s watery nursery had done its work and the toddler-trout years were about to begin. The 8 years olds had supervised their sprouting from tiny, apricot, tapioca-like eggs to wiggly, wriggly alevin; and it was time for the little fishies to make their way to the big sea. My son upended his dixie cup of fishy hope into the raging river. I tried not to think about his high school graduation.

After several days of rain and the doppler threatening more, we took our chances and set off on the riparian trail. From the foot bridge, we could see the river was swollen and in a hurry. But in that beautiful way of children who slow down to wonder at the ordinary, one little girl pointed to the water: “Look! There are hearts! In the river!” I followed the line of her finger to just left of a sand bank in the middle of the stream, where someone had laid out stones in the shape of a large heart – perfectly positioned for viewing from the walkway above. The river was higher than it had been the day before and the stones were submerged; but yet not so deep as to be hidden from view or washed away. Yet. Weather.com seemed pretty sure more rain was coming, and I felt quite sure that by the next day, the stones would be gone.

 

But on that Thursday morning, they were there in all their glory; and I wondered a while about the stone artist. No doubt they had got their feet wet laying those out one at a time. No doubt it had been recent. And, no doubt, they knew as I did that their efforts would soon wash away. I imagined this person laying out the rocks: perhaps for a group

of friends, or a romantic gesture by a shy beau. And I imagined them enjoying the doing of it and enjoying the smiles of those who saw them. But there was no way for this person to know that hours or days later, a troop of giddy eight year olds would all stand above with delighted eyes fixed on the miraculous river sculpture below. God alone is witness to the joy the artist brings in the ripples of time.

And I thought about this blog, and how little I write on it these days, and how

Instagram seems to be the Place Where Its At and social media is exhausting and so much of life is spent shielding ourselves from it. So why write blog posts? What’s the point? And should I continue?

I’ve long used the metaphor that I see this corner of the web as a sort of online living room where I can extend virtual hospitality and talk about the kinds of things I talk about in real life: relationships and faith and the humour and the mess and how injustice breaks my heart and parenting brings me to my knees. My blog is full of bad puns and armchair advice and theological rabbit trails and notes about what I’ve been reading because, well, that’s what my life is like. And you are welcome here.

But more and more the dialog doesn’t happen on the blog, and increasingly it doesn’t seem to happen on Facebook either. The world of commenting online has become tinder-dry: ready to spark to flame at any time. And so: if it feels less like conversation, then why add my voice to the throng? Why keep this blog up?

If information is like a river, swollen and in a rush; here today and gone tomorrow… then maybe this blog is something of a heart of stones, laid in the current with precision and joy even though the clock is ticking. I enjoy the writing, and I hope that for a brief moment before it is buried by algorithms and calendars, it brings some good into the world. And perhaps, long after I’ve logged off, someone else will come across a page; and I won’t be there to see their smile but the smile still counts. I get emails from readers who find posts from a couple years ago: the first person to have noticed the hearts in a long, long time… but for them it made a difference. Perhaps tomorrow the current will wash everything away. But while it’s here, I trust in makes a difference to those who wandered past. And most likely, God alone will bear witness to any smiles brought in the ripples of time. And that’s okay.

Image: from Pexels.com and free images.com

5 thoughts on “The Stone Hearts

  1. i love your blog entries and they are one of the few that I read in their entirety ( spelling ! ). I do a little something along this theme all the time and wonder the reaction of people afterwards. I am a ‘stuff’ person ( books, jewelry, cds, dvds, figurines …..) and from time to time I need to do a cull, and there have been lots of times that the items are made of sterling silver or are still on the best seller list, so to the lucky one who finds what I have culled from my life and left in a spot for someone to find, that would indeed be a special day as they perhaps might wonder who would leave a garnet ring on top of the trash can at the supermarket ? That is precisely why I do it – they will never know it was me, and I hope it lands in the hands of someone who will feel ‘chosen’. With the rocks in the shape of a heart, spotting it and the designer never knowing makes it ever more special. Happy Easter

    • I love the idea of beauty – in whatever form – being passed on and discovered long after we have gone. There’s treasure and beauty everywhere. Happy Easter to you, too.

  2. I can’t remember how I first saw your blog, but I thought it was quality then, and I still do now. I prefer articles to memes, and It’s a nice piece of news to see that you’ve written something. I think, if you enjoy writing, then you should — you’ve obviously got a gift for it (and I’ll keep reading.)

  3. Dearest Bronwyn, Oh how I would miss your writing if you stopped… you are so gifted… may you continue to know God’s blessings, abundantly, especially through your writing! Don’t stop, PLEASE!!! Keep writing! Big hug, my friend! x

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