stones of remembrance

Hi. It’s Georgia. Remember me? I’ve been so enveloped by the lived stories around me, that I haven’t paused to share the things that have been on my mind.

I’ve been in a season of relinquishing the desire to express myself through writing as I have set about weaving and witnessing lived stories. I’ve been dabbling in precarious zones outside my comforts—in peacemaking, in activism, in lament, in pastoral care, in shared community spaces, in advocacy, in cultural and spiritual attentiveness, in empowerment… in the art of neighboring and the courage of parenting. I regularly maneuver through liminal spaces and have gotten stuck and a little rumpled in the shifting sand. But there is so much beauty in the in-between—I’m learning to embrace the invitations and discover divine connections in those spaces.

I find myself toggling in the tension between living stories and sharing stories. Our lives are sacred stories unfolding, yet sometimes we’re too consumed by our lived adventures to write them down. Sometimes we must stop and write them down to remember. To lament. To bear witness. To hold on to our own hope and the hope of others. Sometimes our sacred tellings confound or force us to struggle with the lived realities of others.

Why create space to write now?

I guess I’ve been waiting for Divine permission to pause, reflect, and sort out the stories I’ve been experiencing. As I have dabbled in the spaces of others and listened to many wise sources on various significant subjects, I come back to my deep soul yearning as a word processor.

The other day, I walked by my neighbor’s house and 3 little friends were jumping on a trampoline.

“Watch me! Look at me!“

One of the little girls shouted as if to say: Share my moment. Take in my unique skills and delight, right here, right now—with me!

I paused to behold the invitation. I saw myself as part of her living story. In that moment we wanted the magnificence of this unfolding life to be documented. Even if it is small—to be seen. To be celebrated and maybe even to have significance beyond our small casings of earthly living. After all, our stories outlive our bodies and mark our spot in history.

Writing is personal and shared.

It’s cathartic.

It helps me make sense of myself in a world of chaos.

It’s a divine practice.

My words and my stories are my treasurers. They are my hidden ideas and found discoveries. They are divine markers of holy presence.

Writing is a form of resilience and clarity for myself and my readers. My hope is that my small words are healing and insightful and life giving in some way.

Living Stones

As you come to him, the Living Stone… you also, like living stones, are being built into a spiritual house to be a holy priesthood, offering spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ. 1 Peter 2:4-5

I have been adding to my rock collection over the years. Whenever our family travels to incredible places around the globe, we search for a stone of remembrance and solidarity from that place—to hold on to a tangible reminder that we were there and that the people we met and the experiences we had in those places are held precious.

Each stone tells a unique story. Hard stones of the earth are reminders of the living stones that cry out in their contexts in time and space as spiritual offerings. Even if the details are forgotten, they can’t be untold.

I can’t untaste the flavors I’ve shared around common tables. I can’t unfeel the emotions of bearing witness to stories of trauma and healing through a tearful interpreter. I can’t unsee those faces or unhear that music. And I don’t want to. I want to be changed and be made more beautiful and holy and whole. I write so I can make a record of these things. And maybe others will find themselves in these unfolding stories. Maybe stories will stick like a thorn you can’t wait to pull out of a place that pokes and penetrates and bothers. Those kinds of stories have expanded my perspectives and permanently altered the expressions of my heart. Dr. Jemar Tisby, a voice of faith and reason that I deeply respect in places where marginalized populations often go unheard and are misunderstood, has challenged me that maybe it is such a time as now to share the things on my mind. In his episode of Roadmap to Resistance, he reminds us that we’ve each been given a gift that must manifest for the common good.

Now to each one the manifestation of the Spirit is given for the common good. To one there is given through the Spirit a message of wisdom, to another a message of knowledge… 1 Corinthians 12:7-11

If I have words to process and play with, maybe it’s for the common lifting of others in the messy and chaotic context of 2025. Maybe the distinction between writing for others or writing for myself doesn’t need to be clarified. There is beauty to behold, but it must exist to be beholden at all.

Each of you is to take up a stone…
to serve as a sign among you.
In the future, when your children ask you,
‘What do these stones mean?’
Tell them that…
These stones are to be a memorial to the people forever.
Joshua 4:5-7

I paced up and down the gated driveway. I felt trapped inside the iron gate as cars whizzed by in this unfamiliar corner of the world. Even if I did venture beyond the gate, there was nowhere for me to go. A smaller mission would have to suffice. I continued to pace up and down the drive looking for the perfect stone. Nothing too ostentatious. I did have to fly home with it in my little orange suitcase. Flat, paintable, able to be cradled in the palm of my hand. The fascinating flora in our enclosed community felt like a lush green oasis. But in reality, we were on the outskirts of the ginormous city of Bogota—the wiles of concrete and winding roads.

In order to complete my mission, my precious stone would have to be plucked out of the driveway. I found a less-used corner of the drive that was made up of dirt, concrete, and a variety of rocks packed down by busses full of human cargo regularly deposited at the oasis. Would anyone notice one small rock dug out of the drive? I was willing to take that risk. I curled my fingernails around the underside of a small grey stone and popped it out of its firm dirt casing. I looked around nervously as I brushed off the dirt, wondering if I had triggered the alarms to sound. I slipped the rock into my pocket and went in search of my new friends for tinto–a Colombian coffee break between seminary classes.

Each of you is to take up a stone… Part 1 of the mission accomplished.

Part 2 of the Mission: In the Future…

It sounds easy, but from decades of rock collecting, I knew that keeping track of my stone from June until November amidst the bustle of normal life was no easy task. The goal:

Don’t lose the rock.

Don’t forget which small, grey, unexceptional stone came from that risky mission in that specific faraway corner of the world.

Part 3 of the Mission: To Serve as a Sign

The idea is to encapsulate the essence of 2021 in a word, in a sacred Scripture, and within the boundaries of a small stone and a limited array of paint markers.

Humility was something my husband Steve and I were growing more familiar with this year—learning to live for the sake of others. Learning to offer our whole selves. Learning to delight in the offerings of others. Learning to let God do the heavy lifting, in the privileged places alongside some of His most precious children—Zoe, our oldest daughter, and her steps towards leaving our nest; Ella, our middle girl, as she navigates the wild world of a huge high school; Jamin, our middle schooler, and his newly kindled motivation to understand grammar and poetry and success in learning;

Khalid* the translator and his very real struggles of translating holy Scriptures for his own people in another part of the world;

Cesar* the young linguist who settled on the far side of the sea, learning a language no outsider has yet studied;

Hortensia*, the 15 year old who has worked her way into my heart, and her big, beautiful family learning to thrive as newcomers in our neighborhood;

Naya*, the bright teen I hope doesn’t slip through any cracks;

Yendra and the gift of deepening friendship;

The unique personalities and intense stories that come out of my interactions as a Community Navigator at our local Immigrant and Refugee Center;

The sometimes overwhelming gift of being a good listener;

The adventure of sitting on the Council of Elders—the heartbeat of our church—pondering and praying for the deeper complexities of a thriving church family.

Touring college campuses. Sitting through countless doctor, dentist and vaccination appointments in service to others. The small, daily work of dropping off and picking up precious preschool cargo. Travels to Colombia, Kenya, and Germany—and all the wonderful and difficult places Steve and I connect with virtually as an International Media Consultant and a Language Learning Coach, respectively.

The year has been full. Our position in the lives of others is privileged. Access to people’s hearts is always accompanied by joy and sorrow–the practice of rejoicing with those who rejoice and mourning with those who mourn, our emotions trying to keep up with the quick tempos of life. 2021 has been full of struggle and victory and pain and celebration and barrier and clarity. The rhythm slows just long enough for a deep breath and a moment of beautiful surrender.

Our 2021 Stone:

Location: Colombia

Word: Lifted

Scripture: 1 Peter 5:6

Humble yourselves under God’s mighty hand,
that He may lift you up in due time.

I don’t know who God will lift, or when. But He will. In due time.

And if we are in the privileged space to see Him do any of the heavy lifting or launching—then we too are lifted up.

The Greater Mission: What Do These Stones Mean?

After a lifetime of this familiar rhythm of rock painting as a family—Zoe, Ella, and Jamin know how to join in. They tell their own stories of remembrance and listen to ours.

Steve and I lifted each of them up with specific promises painted on their stones:

Zoe—prosper—Jeremiah 29:11

Ella—belonging—John 14:23

Jamin—focus—Ephesians 2:10

Lifted, belonging, and focus were all placed in the medley of rocks that tell the stories of God’s faithfulness over 22 years of Thanks-giving together. A few stray rocks have gotten in the mix. No one is sure who painted them, or when.

As for prosper—that sits on a smaller shelf of rocks painted by Zoe over the last 10 years of her young life. The rhythm has become her own. She’s building her own altar of thanks and remembrance. Who knows where the rocks in her future will be lifted out of—gated driveways on the outskirts of Bogota? Southern California? Khulna, Bangladesh? Near a French castle or along an Italian riverbank?

To Be Discovered… in due time.

And to be part of a memorial… forever.

* some of the names of my precious friends are pseudonyms

On My Mind

by Georgia