#59: Remembering

#59: Remembering

It was the spring of 2006, and I had just moved into my townhome. For the first time in my adult life, I had a little plot of land to call my own, complete with a weedy flower bed out front that was crying out for attention.

I had been an avid gardener for a number of years, but my experience had always been limited to balcony and container gardens. The excitement of having actual ground to dig in was almost too much for me. (The excitement waned after a few hours of digging and attempting to wrangle the monkey grass that had overrun the flower bed. I know some people love it for its spreading and coverage, but I concluded that day that it’s the spawn of Satan. But I digress…)

At the time, I was in a community group through my church – that is, a small group of women who met once a week for Bible study, and we were in the midst of a Beth Moore study called Believing God. Just that week, we had reached a point in the study where she talked about the importance of remembering times of God’s faithfulness to us. There’s a story in the Old Testament in which God told the Israelites to pick up twelve stones, one for each of the tribes of Israel, and carry them across the Jordan River to the place where they were staying to serve as a memorial of what He had done for them. When their children and children’s children asked them what the stones meant, they were to recount what God had done for them that day.

We were challenged that week to find a rock of some sort that would serve as a memorial stone for us. It didn’t have to be anything special, mind you, just something that would remind us to be intentional about remembering God’s faithfulness. Easy enough, I thought. I’m not picky when it comes to things like this, so I figured I’d just grab the first stone I could find.

That was fresh on my mind one early spring evening as I knelt down in my front yard trying to rid my poor, neglected garden of the large rocks (and small boulders!) that were buried beneath the surface of the red Georgia clay. And as I dug and chipped away at the stubborn earth, I talked to God. I do that, y’know.

About that time, my trowel hit a rock, and I carefully scooped it out of its resting place several inches deep in the bed. As I wiped the dirt off with my gloved hand, I noticed how smooth the dark surface was.

photo (1)

“Hmm… this might make a nice memorial stone. What do you think, Lord?”, I said. OUT LOUD.

And then I turned it over.

photo (2)

“Is that a rhetorical question?”, I think He replied.

I have no way of knowing exactly how that rock came to be in my garden or how long it had been there, just waiting to be discovered. The woman who owned the place before me had been elderly, so my guess is that rock had been buried under layers of dirt and clay for a long time. The fact that before time began, God knew I’d be puttering around in my garden while talking to him about a remembrance stone, and that He arranged in advance the perfect stone for me to find — well, that could just blow the circuitry of my brain if I think about it long enough.

I don’t know about you, but there are times I don’t honestly know if my prayers and concerns are making it any higher than my roof line. But that day, I knew that I knew that I knew that every thought and care and detail of my life was important to my God. Nothing escapes His attention.

And sometimes, I just need to make it a point to remember that.





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