This poem came out one day not long ago when I returned from a walk on the beach. I found this shiny black stone poking out of the sand. I looked down at it, walked away, and then returned to pull it from the sand. I was struggling that day. As I walked along, holding the stone, turning it over and over in my hand, it occurred to me that our lives are much like the journey that stone had made through the surf to the beach. I know it did not start out as a smooth, round object. Somewhere, along a cliff perhaps, the waves beat hard and long enough to cause a chunk of stone to drop into the water. Or maybe its journey began on a rain swept mountainside, down a rumbling river to the sea. Over time, the jagged, rough object was transformed into a smooth stone. Much like my own life is being transformed daily under the watchful eye of my God.

Black Stone

This black stone pushed up 

Through the sand

Just beyond tide’s edge.

My feet step around it

Then draw back to reach a hand,

Feel sand grains beneath my nails

Pull the smooth round treasure from its bed.

I hold it without looking,

Sand and grit and wet

Impressing the skin of my palm,

Catching a corner of my mind’s eye,

In my field of vision

On the near horizon

Surfers ride thick dark swells,

Finding their freedom

On the California coast.

This day on the beach 

I am searching,

Flinging questions and sorrows 

Toward the wide open sky--

The face of God.

I did not come to look for stones.

I am walking 

With the roll of thunder roaring through my bones.

The troubled years shiver, 

Unsettled in their grave.

I am out of touch with hate.

But it is crawling around

Looking for a place of weakness

Underneath my skin.

The stone is cool against my palm.

I imagine its smoothing journey

From ragged cliff’s edge,

Through tumbling waves and surging tides

To find a place

On this beach

In my hand.

I shift my gaze

To shining hills of gold

To the changing line of ocean’s edge.

To cloud shrouded scenes

Of long ago memories almost disappeared.

My own story tumbles and turns 

Through mountains to valleys

By rivers that run to the mouth of the sea.

The eyes of God are watching now.

Even the rocks cry out.

Elizabeth Mitchell