Small Stones

It is just sitting here, this plain glass jar in my bathroom.  The jar is clear and simple, and inside the jar are smooth colored stones, all shiny and perfect.  The centuries that these stones spent tossed in the relentless waves and sand of the Atlantic Ocean have perfectly smoothed away all the rough edges, leaving them sleek and glossy, almost as if an unseen hand has deliberately polished them.  Oh, how I love these serene and beautiful stones that have been sitting here on my porcelain counter for so many years.

Sitting here for so many years, that is, until my two-year old daughter stands beside me.  It takes one curious little hand just one moment to reach for the jar, and in one horrifying crash, the floor is covered with small stones and shattered glass.  Utterly wrecked.  Beyond repair.

In an instant, before I even know what is happening, I am screaming at my daughter, What did you do?  Look what you did?  Look at this mess?  Why do you have to touch my stuff?  Why do you have to break everything?  Do you understand how furious I am right now?  The blistering words spew out of my mouth like an active volcano, sizzling and scorching the innocent little one in front of me, melting her into a puddle of tears.

Whoa!  What just happened?  I am shocked and alarmed at my sudden outburst.  Where did this outrage come from?  What made me lose control like this?  Why would such a minor incident cause me to respond with such a vicious tirade?

I look at the mess of broken glass and small rocks, now mixed with tears and guilt, and I know.  I know why these stones are so important to me.  They are one of the few remaining connections I have left with my son. 

One of the highlights of his growing up years was our vacations to the beach, spending long hot days together as a family.  The girls were like mermaids, spending hours upon hours in the water, diving under the rising waves and swimming out to the large boulder just offshore.  Surfing.

But not my son.  He never really liked the water all that much.  But he did love to collect the little colored stones that had washed up on the sand.  He would comb the shoreline again and again, searching for the most beautiful and unique, the biggest and smoothest .

Often when I would join him on these rock-hunting excursions, he would confide in me, pouring out his goals and dreams for the future.  Big plans full of hope and optimism.  Every time we would take a trip to the beach, I would look forward to our sweet time spent together, and he would look forward to adding more stones to our collection.

But that season is gone.  My son will be 21 on his birthday next week, a milestone that is ever-present in my mind these days.  There haven’t been any beach trips together in quite a while.  No more rock-hunting excursions, no more intimate conversations about his aspirations and desires.   Gradually, step by imperceptible step, he chose a different path, and somehow he has lost his dreams along the way.

The only thing that remains are the wonderful memories and the small smooth stones that we collected. 

And now they lie scattered among the broken glass all over the floor.   As I start picking through the rubble, separating the shards of glass from the rocks, I have a shocking revelation.  Here I was just moments earlier screaming in rage at my wide-eyed little girl about the broken jar, when all along it wasn’t rage at all.  And it wasn’t about the broken jar.  It was about grief.  Grief for the loss of that precious time together with my son.  For the loss of that sweet little boy who had once held hope in his heart. 

And it wasn’t rage, but anxiety.  A constant, underlying worry about what his future will hold.  About what kind of adult he will become.  How will he support himself financially?  Will he be able to maintain healthy relationships?  When will he find the joy and peace he is so desperately seeking?  How will he find his way?

And it wasn’t rage, but hopelessness.  Oh, how I struggle with despair.  As much as I worry and pray and long to be that voice of wisdom that my son needs, I know that ultimately, there is absolutely nothing I can do to change any of it.

And then it hits me full on, a clarity like the sun shining through after wind has blown the clouds away . . . I get it now.  This is exactly what happens when broken children come into my home.  I expect tears.  I can predict the sadness and the mourning and the weeping.  But that’s not what happens.  What happens is they scream.  They ransack my home, kicking and punching holes in the walls, knocking over the lamps, hurling shoes at me, flinging their dinner plate across the room, ripping books and knocking them off the shelf in one fell swoop.  It looks just like rage.

But what if it’s not rage at all?  What if it is grief for all that has been left behind?  Grief for the loss of those precious connections with parents and siblings and grandparents and cousins.  Grief for the loss of their pets and toys and clothes and favorite blanket.  All that is left are those blurry memories.

What if it isn’t rage, but anxiety.  Where is Mommy tonight?  Is she sad or hurt?  Is that mean man still hitting her?  When will I see her?  And what about my little sister?  Who is taking care of her?  Does anyone else know that she is afraid of the dark?  Will we ever be together again? Those are terribly heavy burdens for such tiny shoulders!

And what if those violent outbursts are not rage at all, but really just the visible expression of an invisible despair.  The grownups have taken them away from everything familiar, and are even now making decisions about their future.  As much as they worry and pray and long to be with their family, there is absolutely nothing they can do to change any of it.

What if the frequent tantrums and violent outbursts from these foster children are really just brokenness disguised as anger?  What if all of these extreme behaviors are really just an attempt to navigate confusing and overwhelming feelings?  Feelings that have no words? 

Those strong emotions are difficult for me, and I am an adult with the ability to put things in perspective.  To articulate complex feelings and to regulate my behavior.  (Well, most of the time, anyway.)  How much more difficult is it for a child?  Especially for a young child who has not had time to develop those calming skills?  Who is trying to make sense of a life that doesn’t make sense?

After a few minutes of carefully sifting through the debris on the floor, I decide not to keep the stones.  What’s the point?  Not only are they painful reminders of my son’s childhood that is gone forever, but now they will further remind me of the shame of this terrible moment when I screamed at an innocent little girl.  I don’t want to remember this.

I sweep up the glass and stones from the floor, tossing it all into the trash bin where it belongs.  Gone.

Then I turn to my sweet daughter and hold her close.  I tell her how sorry I am for yelling, letting her know that it wasn’t her fault.  I remind her over and over again, with hugs and kisses and words, how much I love her.

After she is safely tucked in bed for the night, I reconsider tossing the stones away.  I open the trash bin and retrieve just one.  I will keep just one small stone, I decide.  One small stone as a reminder to look beyond the behavior to see the heart.  As a reminder that an ugly outburst might not be what it appears.

I will keep one small stone to remind me that an outburst shouldn’t mean defeat.  It doesn’t have to be the symptom of a moral failure or a character flaw.  It doesn’t need to be followed by guilt and shame.  When the emotions have calmed down and the air is quiet once more, there can still be an opportunity to apologize, to reconnect, and to move forward.  To love even stronger.

There is no need to throw away all the memories of the past, simply because they are too painful.  Memories can be just that – sweet memories of wonderful times together.  Remembering the incredible gift that was family for so many years.

And even more, this one small stone can be a reminder that the end of a chapter doesn’t always mean the end of the story.  It is not possible to go back, but perhaps there is time and space in the months and years ahead to create new memories.  New memories of precious family time and laughter and sharing one another’s hopes and dreams.  Just maybe in a different way.  Maybe with different people.

So yes, I decide.  I will keep this one small stone.  It will be a reminder to never give up.  It will be a symbol of hope.