We lived in a place where people stacked stones.
One upon another.
So they would not forget.
Because of the visual.
A weight.
Stones that speak.
Shout.
Or weep.
Or scream at...
all of the days... or years gone by.
To remember her, or him or these fleeting moments.
When friends, relatives or family experienced great sadness,
or great joy.
And to live, also, even in the knowledge that whatever happened...
there was still, God.
My wife and I went quietly past some of these silent monuments one day.
We paused and read names.
Some were etched
and some were scrawled in burnt ash.
I wondered of the hands that placed the stones.
Did they tremor in the process?
Did the person who bent their knee and placed them here
experience grace enough to lift their chin
and stand again?
To go forward from that day.
Broken stones,
to remember broken bones,
broken hearts.
Broken spirits.
But maybe also to remember hope.
Resurrection.
New days after long nights.
Because...even after the night...there is still God.
And I believe that because, there is...still God,
today, there are living stones of remembrance who walk among us.
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