I ran my fingers over the beautiful gems and lockets of gold in my mother’s jewelry box.
From every piece of plastic costume jewelry to vibrant colored rubies and diamonds, my eyes gazed over every square inch of the wooden box.
When I was a child, I dreamed of the day that I could wear such extravagant adornments. Later in my life, Momma would give me some of the very rings I fantasized about as a child.
But on this particular rainy day, I stepped back in time. I was that little girl again, amazed at my Momma’s collection.
As I moved over her beloved sapphire ring and emerald bracelet, I saw a dull-looking stone buried in the bottom of the box. Sifting through the pieces of jewelry, it didn’t take long for me to see the odd-shaped, rough object.
It was a dirty, battered rock. I instantly remembered it.
I gave my Momma that rock when I was a little girl. Most little girls picked flowers for their mothers, but I prefered rocks.
Rocks interested me. There were so many different shapes, sizes and colors. They reminded me of snowflakes, no two seemed to be alike.
I would search creek beds, gravel roads and patches under trees for the perfect rock. Smooth, dark, light, rough, broken, perfect...there were so many to chose from on my adventures.
I found this particular rock along the gravel driveway at the home of my grandparents. I held onto in my pocket until Momma came to pick me up that afternoon.
As soon as Momma walked through the kitchen screen door, I ran up to her with such excitement.
“Hold out your hand,” I instructed. “I got something for you.”
I placed the rough, grey rock in the palm of her hand. Grinning from ear to ear, I was so proud of the treasure I had found. And Momma was too.
I never gave too much thought about that rock. I later assumed Momma threw it out or lost it.
But there it was, in the bottom of her jewelry box surrounding by pearls and rubies. She had kept that small rock for over two decades.
My children shove their own gifts into my hands today.
Our son James has brought me worms, turtles, even a snake once. But he also has a soft spot for, you guessed it, rocks. Inside my drawer that holds my stockings and socks, I have about three rocks shoved in the corner. He gave those to me after a journey to the creek.
Our daughter Elsie hands over flowers, flowers and more flowers. Unfortunately, they begin to wilt after a few days, but a good book-pressing might save a few.
Our son Jase is just now starting to bring me gifts. Although, that half-eaten slice of bread isn’t what I had in mind.
The small, often overlooked gifts that our children give us should be held close with love and kept for a reminder of how much they loved us.
Kids don’t have much in this world. But for a brief moment, that rock or flower meant everything to them. And they gave it me.
That’s true love.
And only a mother can understand the significance of that exchange. Momma understood it when she placed that rock in her wooden box over 20 years ago.
“That’s that rock I gave you when I was a kid,” I said, as Momma walked into the room.
“I know,” she said, folding up a quilt. “There’s some more in that chest too. You were always giving me rocks.”
I thought about that and smiled.
A few days later, I was in the truck with my husband Jason when I noticed he held a small, glitter cut-out in the shape of a duck.
“What’s that,” I asked, pointing to the yellow duck.
“Elsie gave me that, and I told her I would keep it,” he replied.
And I know he will.
