Sticks and Stones May Break My Heart
Many of you may have grown up with the well known taunt meant to throw your tormentors off guard : "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."
"Nyyaahh!"
The angry reply wasn't effective enough without a tongue aimed in their direction.
Most of the time it was meant for my brother. The one I can not see anymore. The one who I have the most memories of growing up together. The one I hoped to be there for many years to come. The one who always remembered my birthday with a hand drawn card or keepsake beyond just a phone call.
The brother who tormented little sister the most, became the one who understood me best.
I still tell myself (in his voice) what he always said to me during the rough times - "Hang in there."
Like my son Nathanael, my brother was a man of few words, and if you were blessed with a conversation, it was so very special.
On days that I have trouble getting out of the pit of despair, the bad memories hit like a ton of bricks. I remember the day I was angry at my brother because he buried my favorite doll, so I threw rocks at him while he was riding his mini-bike. I got the trouble for that. Now I realize, he picked on me so ruthlessly because he really did like me. (I guess he just didn't like my doll...)
Since life has always been pretty rocky, I habitually seek the peacefulness of the outdoors.
Admiring God's handiwork makes all troubles feel a little smaller.
I think because I have always been "vision-impaired," I tend to appreciate small things more than others. I remember being amazed at all the details in everything when I first saw life through glasses. So as a child I would study the ground, a miniature world that usually passes by without notice. The ants and bugs, the plants and rocks.
To this day, I have a fascination with entomology, botany, geology, and photography.
They weren't paths of professional study, as life had other plans. But for personal use, I have learned and enjoyed quite a bit.
My children knew this, and I think most of them have grown up with a deep appreciation for nature because of it. My two oldest sons took a fancy to photography. My eldest now uses his brother Nathanael's, camera for his photographic endeavors. I still haven't seen all the pictures, they have become hidden treasures within a memory card.
My husband knows this, too, as much as he likes to tease me about my crazy rock collection.
Now my rocks adorn the deck instead of flowers. I love any pretty flowers, but flowers are for sad things. (I'm sure you understand) Rocks don't require watering, which requires strength to carry a watering can daily, which I no longer carry.
Why is my rock collection so special?
Because they hold countless memories.
Every year, my sons would keep an eye out for unusual rocks in the fields and bring them home. A proud gift from the bounty hunters. It was fun to clean them and identify each one. They were sweet gestures of kindness from my boys, now they are golden treasures from all the men in my life.
This is the "Rock" I received from my husband for our anniversary gift last year. He knows me well.
Here is Nathanael having the time of his life, with a new camera, at a grotto built completely out of beautiful rocks by a Catholic priest.
These are my treasures. My time capsules. It doesn't matter that I can't tell you where every single one came from anymore. What matters most is that they all came from the heart. Even if it breaks sometimes, it still holds more healing than you might think.
Stories from the journey of my life
by: Sue Leerhoff
Brick By Brick
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