As we entered the church we were asked to take a stone …

My Stone was chosen to fit my hand … I didn’t choose a large stone, or a small stone, or one with sharp edges.

My Stone is grey, dark grey, the colour of slate. It has dints and scratches. It might even contain a fossil, speaking of history from long ago. It has rounded edges, yet it is flat on one side, square at one end and round at the other.

My Stone is shaped like a clog!

My Stone is cold, hard and unyielding. Yet when I hold it, and become familiar with it, it grows warm and comfortable in my hand. If I leave it in my pocket, it is comforting to know it’s there.

My Stone is of little use and no value, but I grow to like it.

My Stone isn’t pretty or attractive, at least not to anyone else.

My Stone is distracting, as I absent mindedly toy with it, contemplating it’s weight and shape and colour.

In an act of worship, we are invited to offer up our stone, to leave it in a bowl of water in front of the Cross.

But it’s my stone … I like it. I want to keep it!

Instead, I place it in the bowl, along with all the others that have been offered. It looks different, it glistens as if polished, it nestles down among the other stones, an image of the living stones, together. 

Afterwards, we are invited to take a stone home, to put it somewhere we will see it often … as a reminder of the worship this evening, as a symbol of the church family. But I don’t want just any stone, I want my stone. I search for it, take it out of the water, dry it off so that it is once again a dull, grey, boring stone. I take it back. And now I keep it close by, and carry it everywhere in my pocket. It comforts me. Distracts me. It doesn’t matter. It’s just a stone, isn’t it?

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