I love rocks. They are one of my favorite things. I love the textures and the shapes. I like to think about how old they are and who else has looked at them.
We often find big, gnarly, limestone creations in our creek or in places where the water has coursed over the rocks to create fantastic designs. How long did it take for the water to erode that rock into the shape it is now? Was it always in the water or did it roll in there one day as a result of an animal stepping on it? Or maybe the earth shook with one of those mini earthquakes, and it was jolted loose from its home in the creekbank.
The rock pictured here was uncovered when we were digging the foundation for our home. A tractor couldn’t lift it so the men who were doing the dirt work dug the hole and placed it for us. Nearly six feet of this huge rock are above the ground and another three feet are buried. It is almost seven feet wide. Perhaps one day down the road, someone will ask, “I wonder where that huge rock came from?”
There is something enduring about rocks that we are all drawn to. Afterall, tombstones are often some kind of rock. They are chosen with care—the shape, the color, the size. All are important as we use them to remember those we love.
I love rocks. They hold secret stories inside of them, stories that we may never know.