Small, Sharp Jagged Stones
© Patty Fitts. All Rights Reserved.
When I was about eight years old my family moved to Birmingham, Alabama. Mom and Dad bought a house on the side of one of the mountains surrounding the city. My father wanted a little room, so he bought the lot next to us, insuring no close neighbors. The problem was that the lot was slanted deeply away from the house. So, my Dad, a salesman and always on the lookout for a deal, bought truckloads of fill dirt and soon we had a level side yard. We put up a basketball goal and had a large yard to play sports.
The problem with the fill dirt was that it was filled with small, sharp, jagged stones that were a nuisance. They hurt our feet and were painful when we fell on them. My Dad came to my brother and me and offered us ten cents a bucket to pick up the small stones. That was big money back in 1953. So we picked up stones for hours on end. We seemed to have removed every rock there was in the yard. We didn’t make a fortune, but certainly proud. Then it rained. The next morning we went out into our freshly picked yard and there were thousands of small, sharp, jagged stones. It was as if we had never worked at all.
A lifetime later when I worked with hospice, I thought of this when I was doing grief work with a widow of a minster whose thirty-five year old daughter had died of a brain tumor. We spent months dealing with her feelings and the myriad of memories that brought her pain and sadness. After several months it seemed we had made real progress.
Then, an event, another time of year, or a ride down a familiar street would bring back forgotten memories. She told me about little things that she found that brought her pain, small things that she had forgotten. Some of these were white gloves, feeding ducks at the lake, Applebee’s Restaurant, or other seemingly innocuous things. Football season came upon us and the Tampa Bay Buccaneer’s football team reminded her of her daughter’s passion for them. There were more things to discuss and deal with. Each one was a painful reminder of the unfulfilled hopes and dreams of an energetic and bright light suddenly extinguished.
We plodded on, taking them one at a time, just like the small, sharp jagged stones.
© 2012, John C. Fitts, III. All Rights Reserved.
The problem with the fill dirt was that it was filled with small, sharp, jagged stones that were a nuisance. They hurt our feet and were painful when we fell on them. My Dad came to my brother and me and offered us ten cents a bucket to pick up the small stones. That was big money back in 1953. So we picked up stones for hours on end. We seemed to have removed every rock there was in the yard. We didn’t make a fortune, but certainly proud. Then it rained. The next morning we went out into our freshly picked yard and there were thousands of small, sharp, jagged stones. It was as if we had never worked at all.
A lifetime later when I worked with hospice, I thought of this when I was doing grief work with a widow of a minster whose thirty-five year old daughter had died of a brain tumor. We spent months dealing with her feelings and the myriad of memories that brought her pain and sadness. After several months it seemed we had made real progress.
Then, an event, another time of year, or a ride down a familiar street would bring back forgotten memories. She told me about little things that she found that brought her pain, small things that she had forgotten. Some of these were white gloves, feeding ducks at the lake, Applebee’s Restaurant, or other seemingly innocuous things. Football season came upon us and the Tampa Bay Buccaneer’s football team reminded her of her daughter’s passion for them. There were more things to discuss and deal with. Each one was a painful reminder of the unfulfilled hopes and dreams of an energetic and bright light suddenly extinguished.
We plodded on, taking them one at a time, just like the small, sharp jagged stones.
© 2012, John C. Fitts, III. All Rights Reserved.