Prayers and Rocks

The Prayer Rock

            My grandmother has a prayer rock. It is a small, smooth stone oddly shaped like a circle, and has the word “pray” painted onto the surface in gold. I remember when I first found this rock, I knew that it was special, but I didn’t know why. It wasn’t out in the open, but it also wasn’t hidden either in the back of a drawer; not out of sight, out of mind.

            I asked my grandmother what it was. She said that a prayer rock was used in so many different ways, and that “she couldn’t possibly try and explain them all to a nine year old”. Instead, she told me why and how she came to possess her prayer rock.

            She had gotten it from church one day, based on a lesson that was given. She took it home and placed it on her nightstand, right underneath a picture of her and her best friend, in New York probably doing things that parents don’t know but only teenage girls do, taking those secrets with them to the grave. Every time she would look at it, she would be reminded to pray. She didn’t even have to hold it while praying, which is what some people do. She would just look and pray.

            After she had explained this to me, I had some thoughts. I thought, “What is so special about this prayer rock? It’s literally a rock that I could just replace with one from the garden.” It wasn’t until years later that I fully grasped what was so special about this rock.

            My grandmother, Mary Lou, grew up knowing and worshiping God. To this day, I still don’t understand how one person can have so much faith. I wish that I could have this rock tell me what she prayed about, the answers that she received, but for now, I’ll just try and guess.

            Maybe one time, she prayed about divorcing her husband. Knowing that she would lose someone she had loved at one point, with children that hadn’t even reached adulthood yet. Did she pray, with tears flowing, saying, “Why did this have to happen”? “Shouldn’t all marriages be perfect and work out”?

            Another time, she could have prayed about marrying my grandfather, knowing that at the time he wasn’t religious, but would be eventually. Did she pray about the time her mother said, “Midge, Midge, he’s going to make a great member of the church”, after only knowing him during the time of an insurance sales pitch in their front living room? Or maybe, did she give a prayer of thanks for the wonderful husband, father, grandfather, and great-grandfather he became?

            When she became pregnant with my father, did she offer prayers of worry? Not knowing how this baby would turn out in a “hers, mine, ours” family of 7 children? Did both my grandmother and grandfather kneel down to make sure this baby would be born healthy, kind, and wise?

            When sorrow came knocking at her doorstep, did she turn to pray, willing to do almost anything to relieve the poison of sadness that was running through her veins? Maybe prayers of forgiveness and grace were said among wails and better memories of the past.

            Today, I would give almost anything to hear her stories of what she said when she was around her prayer rock. I’ve heard most of the stories from her, but not the raw stories of when she turned to the only source of comfort not offered by anything on this planet. I hope that one day, I may just get a prayer rock, and become a woman of faith, just like her.