If rocks were currency, I’d be rich.
I find rocks under the couch. In pockets of shorts. On the floor of the mini-van. Often I’m handed rocks to hold on to, and they end up in my purse.
My little boys are obsessed with rocks. It seems rock collecting is a universal practice among boys as other moms report the same thing.
Most of the time the rocks my boys pick up are just rocks; small, grey blobs. Sometimes the rocks are interesting. They shine with flecks of quartz, are etched with the markings of a fossil or they’re a much sought after chalk rock that can draw pictures on the driveway.
My six year old has a shelf full of rocks in his room. I don’t know how the shelf still hangs on the wall under the weight of the rocks. I’m just waiting for it to come crashing down on his little brother’s head. Whenever anything comes crashing down in our house, it always crashes into Wade.
Both plain and fancy rocks hold places of honor on David’s shelf. To David all the rocks are valuable, and he remembers exactly where he found each one. These rocks are his discoveries, and that makes them precious treasure.
I understand this, because I also collect. Memories. Memories that are mine, each one a treasure. Some are simple. Catching a toad in the yard. Rocking a sweet newborn in the night. Holding a toddler’s hand as we climb over a fallen log in the woods.
Some memories are more grand. Wading together in the Atlantic. Standing together atop of the Sears Tower and looking out over Chicago.
Some memories are dramatic. Comforting him as doctors work over him at the hospital as he labors for breath.
No matter how the memories are classified, like David’s rocks, they’re all precious to me.
Neither rocks nor memories are currency, but I am rich. Rich in love and joy.