I move through life picking up pebbles—each one a remembrance, a blessing:
The full moon.
A shared meal.
The tree that sounds like the ocean.
Cuddling a baby.
A word of encouragement.
My niece saying my name.
The feel of the breeze.
A lesson learned.
But my hands are small. I pick the pebbles up, perhaps I hold a few at a time; I make mental—and sometimes written—note of them, but then I drop them. I pick up and drop them . . . pick up and drop them . . . pick up and drop them.
And I forget. I may pick up the same stone two times or nine, I don’t know. They slip through my fingers and out of my mind.
Gone . . . gone where?
Today I turned around, and I did not see a trail of scattered gravel—no, I saw those ordinary, easy-to-miss pebbles created a collective altar of gratitude.
The moments were only moments, not momentous—each one an average, everyday bit of rock. There were no boulders. No marble. No polished granite. No glittering gemstones. But together those pebbles form a mighty memorial.
They tell a story of great faithfulness and grace. My story. A story I tend to overlook as incomplete and unremarkable. But today I see the assemblage of blessing—the people, the experiences, the beauty—and I see the fingerprints of God.
So I pick up the next pebble and the next pebble and whisper my thankfulness.