I was fourteen when you came into my life, blessed and brought from Rome. A gift but neglected and ignored like a shirt given but not really wanted. Hidden away and unimportant. Many years you were ignored and insignificant. I really had no use for you because you were like gossamer; thin, wispy and insubstantial.
But I was young.
Your value went unrecognized far along the diverse trail I traveled. The journey bore unrealized, abundant blessings but I was blinded by the perils. There was love and marriage. A sweet, polite, tender boy, an energetic, determined boy then a beautiful, willing, determined girl. Inexperienced and wide eyed, I fell into many craters and tripped over abundant pebbles, stones and boulders, and failed to see hidden behind the dirty faces, late dinners and sleepless nights, the captivating tenderness and certainty of my family.
But I was learning.
Restlessness, despair, sorrow and fear found me and I found you where you are; by my side. I reached for the coolness to sooth my pain as I clutched and wept with you. Release as warm comfort swept over me and washed out valleys of misery and solace rose to the surface.
But I was naive.
Forgetting the comfort and peace you brought when I was desperate, we rarely shared, but you waited. Waited because the path is never clear and a time would come when I would stumble, lose my balance and reach for you.
And then I understood.
I found deep despair, driven by my sick baby. I found answers, and you helped me to surrender my will for His will. You taught me I must pray from my soul and not from my head. Soothed and peaceful, I clutched you in my hand. Awareness pierced my understanding – no prayer is answered unless it has been asked.
And I grew.
Discovering I can count on you not for you but what you bring me. Held in my hand, prayers drift from mind, to lips to God. We’ve traveled, slept, lived together. Rejoiced, mourned and maintained. You are fifty nine beads; blessed and holy. Simple connected beads in my hand, a gift that gave me a gift. Appearing as a chain but really a lifeline to my devout love of God. Clouds and blindness clear and focus. My perception is bright and I see God.
Now I believe.
Written from a prompt provided by RemembeRED: Personification
Do objects have a memory? Does a rocking chair hold the essence of the snuggles it has witnessed? Does a pottery mug remember the comforting warmth it offered a struggling soul?
The dictionary defines personification as “the attribution of a personal nature or human characteristics to something nonhuman, or the representation of an abstract quality in human form.”
This week, tell a piece of your story from the point of view of an object who bore witness.