On Forgiveness

My hand clutches onto the stone. The history of this mineral is worth noting. It was once flowing from magna boiling in the center of the world's bosom. It has sat in the dust and in the heat of the day collecting the cruel warmth from the sun. It's hot as it sears my inner palm. And through the heat, and through the burning, I know it has laid ages upon ages in forests, in pathways, being kicked every which way. Sometimes carried by the winds; sometimes puddled by the rains. This rock still hard, impenetrable, and forever jagged...and what's the big thing about stones...if thrown...they hurt. -All the better, I tell myself.

A stone into the forehead of a loathsome giant...makes the giant topple and fall. For every monster of pride shall do just that. -Fall into the dust. Why, there's no place better for a stone to be sent, but in the hard head of a detested enemy. And the strange thing about a stone...why does it not change in one's hand over time like the sifting of sands? or the transformation of water? Time elapses but yet it's solidity is unbreakable. It's worth...only dead weight. It cries out to be thrown from the heart and hand to the foe. I know not what else to do with it.

But there was a teacher once who stood before an unrighteous woman of disgust and shame and said, "He who has no sin throw the first stone." And someplace within me that phrase still resonates. So I clutch the rock in my hand, its heat continually burning my palm. I do not know what to do with my stone, Lord, I do not know what to do with my stone.