The Hidden Stones

Some conversations are too precious to leave empty-handed.

My father and I often passed a stone back and forth when we talked.

Not to decide who would speak.

The stone belonged to the listener.

Whoever held it was being reminded that someone had entrusted them with something living.

Something that carried weight.

Something to receive carefully.

Listening, I was learning, was not passive.

It was a way of carrying another person.

Even now, if there is no stone nearby, I often find myself rubbing my fingertips together while listening.

It has become a quiet reminder.

Someone has placed a piece of themselves into my care.

And I want to hold it well.

Looking back, I realize the stone was never the only lesson.

Whenever I hurried ahead on the trail, I would suddenly hear my father somewhere behind me.

“Ooooooh…”

“Aaaah…”

“My, my, my…”

I never knew what he had found.

I only knew it must be wonderful.

Before long, I would find myself walking back toward him, searching the ground, trying to discover what he had seen.

More often than not, I forgot what I had been hurrying toward in the first place.

Wonder had quietly displaced hurry.

He was teaching me how to look.

Sometimes I wonder if that is one reason God chose stones.

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When Israel crossed the Jordan, God did not ask them to build a monument of marble.

He did not ask them to carve their story into tablets.

He simply told them to gather stones.

Twelve of them.

Each man lifted one from the riverbed and carried it on his shoulder.

They would become a memorial.

A place where children would one day ask,

“What do these stones mean?”

I had read Joshua many times.

Then one day my eyes stopped in a place they had hurried past for years.

There were not only twelve stones.

There were twenty-four.

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Most of us remember the stones at Gilgal.

We almost never notice the others.

Joshua also set up twelve stones in the middle of the Jordan.

Beneath the waters.

Hidden—

but not forgotten.

I have often wondered why.

Why leave a memorial where no one would gather?

Where no child could climb?

Where no traveler would stop and ask,

“What do these stones mean?”

Perhaps not every memorial was meant to be seen.

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I have spent many quiet mornings sitting beside rivers.

The first thing I notice is usually the water.

The current.

The light.

The reflections.

A deer steps quietly to the edge.

Then a bird comes to drink.

Almost without realizing it,

my eyes follow.

And suddenly,

I begin to notice the stones beneath the surface.

The water had not been hiding them.

It had been teaching me how to look.

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Perhaps Scripture is like that.

We often ask God to show us something new.

Perhaps He is first teaching us how to see what has been there all along.

Some memorials stand upon the shore.

Others rest beneath the current.

Some acts of faith stand where everyone can see them.

Others rest where only God sees.

Yet both quietly mark the places where His presence has been.

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The Jordan had been carrying its memories for centuries.

And years later,

another Iēsous would step into those same waters.

The true Presence.

I have often wondered…

did He think of the hidden stones?

He stood where the priests had once stood.

Where the Ark had rested.

Where God’s people had crossed from wilderness into promise.

Now God Himself stood in the river.

The crossing had become a Person.

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I still find myself stopping beside rivers.

Watching sunlight dance across moving water.

Listening for birds.

Waiting for deer.

Looking beneath the surface.

Not because I expect to find Joshua’s stones.

But because someone once taught me that the most beautiful things often wait patiently

until we learn how to look.

Perhaps that is one of God’s quietest gifts.

He teaches us how to notice.

And once you learn to look,

you begin finding stones everywhere.

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Thank you for walking with me.

Is there a place in Scripture—or perhaps in creation—that taught you to stop and look again?

I’d love to hear what you’ve discovered.

— Gilda

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© Gilda Wray. All rights reserved.