Friday, Day Six: Cornerstones
My father-in-law picked rocks out of the corn field behind his home in preparation for our wedding.
“Don’t worry. He’s going to love this project,” my soon-to-be spouse said to me, but I wasn’t so sure. He is not the most talkative or expressive person—to put it mildly. He often chooses not to attend parties or family gatherings, preferring instead to be alone, running or skiing miles of trails on an almost daily basis, regardless of the weather. I was a bit wary of him at first. While there was no question how my mother-in-law felt about me or the wedding, I wasn’t sure about his feelings. After all, his daughter was marrying a woman—surprising enough on its own—but I am also an older woman with a special needs child and a complicated life.
Somehow, my spouse and I got the idea that our guests should write messages on rocks instead of in a guest book. We wanted to carry something heavy into our lives together. We had become friends and later fallen in love because we had found in each other a willingness to hold each others’ sorrows, no matter their weight. We knew from the beginning that we were choosing a life that would not be easy. We chose it anyway.
So we looked on the internet, as people these days do when preparing for a wedding. We found all kinds of smooth-and-beautiful-message-on-rocks kits online, but none of them seemed right for us.
Anyone who grew up in a Christian church has probably heard these words (paraphrased here): the stone that the builder believed to be useless became the cornerstone.
Jesus, mocked and ruthlessly killed, the beginning and end.
The stone rolled away from the tomb, despite its heft—the opening that illuminated the Easter story.
So, my father-in-law to be was charged with finding enough rocks, lifting them out of the dirt, and laying them out so we could inspect them in the backyard. About a week before the wedding, we visited my in-laws’ home and carefully washed the rocks, getting the ready for the ceremony. He watched us, a small, wry smile on his face.
“I told you,” my spouse-to-be said to me as we were driving home. “He’s happy because we are happy.”
At the ceremony, we had a rock boy and rock girls instead of a ring bearer and flower girls. They carried the rocks to the front of the hall in baskets we had borrowed from those gathered. Later in the ceremony, we invited all the children present to come up to the front and pass out the rocks. My favorite photos from the wedding show my spouse and I bending to point children in the direction guests who had not yet received their rocks.
After this ritual, after the accompanying song was finished, the pastor asked if anyone did not have a rock. When our friend Arne raised his hand, there was a flurry of little bodies running to the back of the room. It was hilarious.
We took the rocks with us to Itaska State Park, where we went for a short honeymoon. On the first night, we huddled in our cabin—it was pouring rain—and laid the rocks out on the wood floor, reading each one slowly. We savored the silly and serious, poignant and ridiculous, the one-word messages and the long, clever missives, the neat, careful cursive and the scribbles of children who couldn’t yet form their letters. We guessed at who wrote each—not all of them were signed—and joked that we had probably brought together the strangest group of people ever assembled for a wedding.
As I reflect on our wedding and read and re-read the rock messages—as I remember my father-in-law gathering the rocks, and the children distributing them—I remember Jesus’ first miracle, the water turned to wine at a wedding feast—and remember, too, that it was the servants who witnessed it, not the guests of honor.
Do whatever he tells you, Mary had said, letting Jesus loose on the world.
I think also about the long battle for LGBT marriage rights that coincided with our falling in love. I remember how hard so many of those who gathered to celebrate with us on our wedding day—and so many others in our state and nation—fought for our right to get married. I think, too, about how that battle continues now, as I write this, throughout the nation and world.
I believe that Jesus died for us, but my understanding of what that means has evolved considerably throughout my life. I am not so sure I can believe in a God who would sacrifice his only son just to show us how much he loves us. I cringe whenever I hear the parallel story of Abraham and Isaac from the Old Testament—how could a good God require that kind of sacrifice? How terrorized Isaac must have felt the rest of his life after his father held a knife to his neck!
I believe Jesus died for us in that his sacrifice sets an example for how we should live. Because he challenged those among him to look beyond their tired rituals and small-minded perspectives. Because he told those in power they ought to honor the poor and forgotten rather than honoring the rich—or themselves. Because he healed in a world that depended on brokenness to function (as ours does). Because he modeled a wide, wide welcome—the kind of welcome we tried to create at our wedding.
Jesus didn’t change the world, exactly. It is still broken. There is still suffering. Those in power still exploit those without power. But here is the message of the Resurrection: Jesus showed us another way. He helped us to see that the story isn’t over, ever. He showed us how to provide healing to anyone who shows up—fishermen and “fallen women” and repentant tax collectors. He showed us how to speak up for what is right, regardless of the cost.
Most of all, he taught us how to love. Because of his example, we can love the family members and friends and neighbors we don’t understand. We can open the door to let more people in. We can share in other’s joy. We can forgive. We can start over. We can see the beauty in the rock that appears to be ordinary.
“Don’t worry. He’s going to love this project,” my soon-to-be spouse said to me, but I wasn’t so sure. He is not the most talkative or expressive person—to put it mildly. He often chooses not to attend parties or family gatherings, preferring instead to be alone, running or skiing miles of trails on an almost daily basis, regardless of the weather. I was a bit wary of him at first. While there was no question how my mother-in-law felt about me or the wedding, I wasn’t sure about his feelings. After all, his daughter was marrying a woman—surprising enough on its own—but I am also an older woman with a special needs child and a complicated life.
Somehow, my spouse and I got the idea that our guests should write messages on rocks instead of in a guest book. We wanted to carry something heavy into our lives together. We had become friends and later fallen in love because we had found in each other a willingness to hold each others’ sorrows, no matter their weight. We knew from the beginning that we were choosing a life that would not be easy. We chose it anyway.
So we looked on the internet, as people these days do when preparing for a wedding. We found all kinds of smooth-and-beautiful-message-on-rocks kits online, but none of them seemed right for us.
Anyone who grew up in a Christian church has probably heard these words (paraphrased here): the stone that the builder believed to be useless became the cornerstone.
Jesus, mocked and ruthlessly killed, the beginning and end.
The stone rolled away from the tomb, despite its heft—the opening that illuminated the Easter story.
So, my father-in-law to be was charged with finding enough rocks, lifting them out of the dirt, and laying them out so we could inspect them in the backyard. About a week before the wedding, we visited my in-laws’ home and carefully washed the rocks, getting the ready for the ceremony. He watched us, a small, wry smile on his face.
“I told you,” my spouse-to-be said to me as we were driving home. “He’s happy because we are happy.”
At the ceremony, we had a rock boy and rock girls instead of a ring bearer and flower girls. They carried the rocks to the front of the hall in baskets we had borrowed from those gathered. Later in the ceremony, we invited all the children present to come up to the front and pass out the rocks. My favorite photos from the wedding show my spouse and I bending to point children in the direction guests who had not yet received their rocks.
After this ritual, after the accompanying song was finished, the pastor asked if anyone did not have a rock. When our friend Arne raised his hand, there was a flurry of little bodies running to the back of the room. It was hilarious.
We took the rocks with us to Itaska State Park, where we went for a short honeymoon. On the first night, we huddled in our cabin—it was pouring rain—and laid the rocks out on the wood floor, reading each one slowly. We savored the silly and serious, poignant and ridiculous, the one-word messages and the long, clever missives, the neat, careful cursive and the scribbles of children who couldn’t yet form their letters. We guessed at who wrote each—not all of them were signed—and joked that we had probably brought together the strangest group of people ever assembled for a wedding.
As I reflect on our wedding and read and re-read the rock messages—as I remember my father-in-law gathering the rocks, and the children distributing them—I remember Jesus’ first miracle, the water turned to wine at a wedding feast—and remember, too, that it was the servants who witnessed it, not the guests of honor.
Do whatever he tells you, Mary had said, letting Jesus loose on the world.
I think also about the long battle for LGBT marriage rights that coincided with our falling in love. I remember how hard so many of those who gathered to celebrate with us on our wedding day—and so many others in our state and nation—fought for our right to get married. I think, too, about how that battle continues now, as I write this, throughout the nation and world.
I believe that Jesus died for us, but my understanding of what that means has evolved considerably throughout my life. I am not so sure I can believe in a God who would sacrifice his only son just to show us how much he loves us. I cringe whenever I hear the parallel story of Abraham and Isaac from the Old Testament—how could a good God require that kind of sacrifice? How terrorized Isaac must have felt the rest of his life after his father held a knife to his neck!
I believe Jesus died for us in that his sacrifice sets an example for how we should live. Because he challenged those among him to look beyond their tired rituals and small-minded perspectives. Because he told those in power they ought to honor the poor and forgotten rather than honoring the rich—or themselves. Because he healed in a world that depended on brokenness to function (as ours does). Because he modeled a wide, wide welcome—the kind of welcome we tried to create at our wedding.
Jesus didn’t change the world, exactly. It is still broken. There is still suffering. Those in power still exploit those without power. But here is the message of the Resurrection: Jesus showed us another way. He helped us to see that the story isn’t over, ever. He showed us how to provide healing to anyone who shows up—fishermen and “fallen women” and repentant tax collectors. He showed us how to speak up for what is right, regardless of the cost.
Most of all, he taught us how to love. Because of his example, we can love the family members and friends and neighbors we don’t understand. We can open the door to let more people in. We can share in other’s joy. We can forgive. We can start over. We can see the beauty in the rock that appears to be ordinary.
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