Angie Chipera

The Stone’s Song

I felt the stone growing in my chest cavity. It had a song to sing, a song written just for me, but I didn’t want to hear it. Instead, I chose to distance myself from it like a miner ignores the worthless tailings from an ore mine.

As a scientist, I could define it. In science-speak, the stone was a dense globular mass, dark in color and pitted like a golf ball. It resembled an uncut agate but, instead of being lined with beautiful bands of colored quartz crystals, it promised to be dark and gloomy on the inside. It was the kind of agate no one would choose when hunting for agates. The geology instructor would say, “Don’t take that one. It’s not special.”

My problem? The stone kept singing. I tried to erase it as I would any other annoying catchy tune that my mind sickeningly played over and over and over. I sang other songs in an attempt to drown it out. I turned the radio up loud. Still, I cursed the stone as it sang louder and louder for my attention.

Like Bob Seeger, I didn’t want to hear this new song. I desperately wanted to play the old tunes with their familiar melody and prophetic lyrics. Something that touched my heart like the early morning rays of sunshine or a newborn baby. I wanted to hear a “sit in the hammock in the backyard, relaxing, listening to tunes” kind of song or a much-loved melody always chosen when scanning through the radio stations in the car.

In my mind, I tossed the stone into the closet like I would a child’s beach ball and slid the door shut, thinking, hoping, that, if I couldn’t see it, I wouldn’t hear it.

Untrue.

When the stone’s melody seeped out around the cracks, I lined the closet with insulation in order to lock the song inside. Welcome relief spread through me like a bonfire on a cold winter’s night and I got great satisfaction from knowing that I would not have to hear the stone’s song.

Now that the song was inaudible, I was free to live my life, reveling in the old tunes, singing along with their melodies. As days turned into months, I dreaded waking up and hearing the stone’s song, but I knew it would happen.

And I did.

No problem. I simply imagined that the closet walls encasing the stone were built of concrete a foot thick. With my help, the closet door slid shut with a resounding thud, bringing me to dead silence. And that was what I wanted.

Soon, the stone and its cement jail weighed heavy on my chest, pressing against my lungs like a truckload of wooden vigas until I could no longer breathe. I sobbed, knowing that there was nothing else I could do. I was going to have to break down the cement walls and, when I did, I would hear the stone’s song.

And then I would cry uncontrollably.

Even though I had ignored the lyrics to this new song, I knew them already. They spoke of a young woman who would soon leave my home to join the Marine Corps. I’m absolutely bursting with pride that she chose such an honorable path. Her membership in “the few, the proud,” has guaranteed her a future filled with discovery, but it’s a future that she can’t share with me.

The adventurous gal who used to happily chat with me until the early morning hours would now be chatting all night with someone else. The dreams and revelations that she had shared with me would now be shrouded in secrecy. I felt cheated.

I flung myself onto my bed and threw the covers over my head, desperately replaying the old songs. Happy songs that chanted of the Saturdays when we stayed in our pajamas all day and wrote stories on the computer. Melodies that buzzed with hikes, canoe trips, and movies. Poems that spoke of the trees and the mountains and how they resonated so perfectly with our souls. I forced my brain to stay in the now, to stay happy, to be content with today.

Then Jill Briscoe, a woman infinitely wiser than I, said she knew why the stone was so heavy. Its song was the mirror of my soul, a direct reflection of my grief, my loneliness, my self-doubt. It’s lyrics called out to me, “Have you adequately prepared your daughter for this journey? Did you teach her everything she needs to know to be successful?”

The questions were true. I felt as if I had so much left to teach her. There were so many things that we still needed to work on in order for her to survive in the new world. What if I had failed to teach her something important? What if I was a bad teacher and she failed miserably because of me?

Jill reminded me of the story of young David who fought Goliath. As David prepared to do battle, his best friend Saul gave David his armor, but David shrugged it off and instead chose his own weapon—the five stones. “Let your David be David,” she said. “Let her chose her own stones.”

But I’ve battled with Goliath and, surely, as her parent, I know which stones she should choose, right? After all, aren’t I successful? Don’t I know and possess the necessary tools to win the battles of life? Shouldn’t I give her the armor she needs?

Jill gently pushed me further to understand. “… David is in another generation … he must do it his way.”

After much thought, I realized my wise mentor was right. Instead of forcing my daughter to wear my armor, I must wait on the shore while she chooses her own five stones, fits them into her sling, and steps out to face her foes.

One stone could be her natural ability and personality. She’s an exacting, strong leader, respected by her peers. Her Marine Corps instructors have already realized these qualities in her and are excited to have her in their unit.

Her faith—her faith in God, herself, and her abilities—could be her second stone. She’s certain that she’s on the right path. She doesn’t doubt herself.

The third stone could be her enthusiasm and incredible potential. I remember a family Marine Corps function we attended where she encountered her first Drill Sergeant. All the new cadets were called forward and the Drill Sergeant barked orders at them at the top of his lungs for at least twenty minutes. I was getting a headache and I positively knew, when she returned to her seat next to me, she would tell me how hard it was. But she didn’t. She said, “Well, that was fun.” Something I saw as an exhausting struggle she found to be invigorating.

Her background and heritage could be the fourth stone. Everything she had experienced in her short life, whether good or bad, had led her to this day, to this decision. Her challenge was to take the wisdom she gained from the hurtful experiences in her life and spin it into strength to use during the tough times.

The fifth stone was her God-given talents perhaps. She has many, but her greatest gifts have always been her dogged determination to complete her goals, strong will to succeed, and profound curiosity. I had to trust that God had given her the tools she needed to be successful without my help.

This was my stone’s song—let David be David. She had everything she needed to be successful. Once I heard my stone’s song, the tremendous weight on my chest lifted. The lyrics I’d fought so hard to ignore were almost an alleluia chorus.

I could not as yet see the color of my agate, but I no longer feared to open the closet door and hear the stone’s song.