It is a prized possession. One that I wear every day. It’s part of my identity. It’s who I am.
My wedding ring…a band of love and trust.
Easing it into the clay bowl on my kitchen window, I run my bare hand under the running water as I get ready to wash my dishes. My hand feels naked without it on. But I don’t dare risk losing it down my sink as I get my kitchen ready for the next busy day.
Scrubbing the remains of supper’s feast off my dish, I look up at the shiny ring as it sits in the simple, almost primitive clay bowl. Not only does it represent my marriage, but it also represents a possession. A material item worth something both symbolically and financially.
My true love Jason sold his beloved white Z28 Camaro for that ring. He was known in Yazoo for that car. To this day, I hear stories from old friends about “Jason and his Camaro.”
And now “the Camaro” sits on my finger, I jokingly think.
But then my eyes begin to look over the small clay bowl my wedding ring sits inside. To the average eye, it’s not much really. It isn’t painted. It has no varnish. It is a dull, brown bowl in the shape of a heart.
But underneath it…there’s the value. In the scribble of a child, my eldest son’s name is inscribed. James…that’s all it says.
James made me that heart-shaped clay bowl in his art class. He was so proud of his work, and he was eager to sign his name to his creation. He didn’t think to paint it or plaster a coat of shiny varnish over it. He was so proud of the bowl as it was…a simple vessel.
And the expensive ring that sits in it doesn’t come close to it. Sure, I adore my ring. But it’s not just the ring itself that holds the value. It is the love of the man behind it that adds to its worth.
Even if the ring wasn’t there, my marriage and love would be.
But that bowl has its own value with no price tag. It is a symbol of my son’s love. He worked his heart out on that bowl, and he was so proud of it when he presented it to me after school one day.
Proud of his work, I sat it in the kitchen window so that I could see it every day.
I noticed something last night that increased its value to me even more.
Picking up the bowl to slide my ring out of it, my thumb slid down its edge into a small crease at the bottom. My thumb fit perfectly into James’ thumbprint that was left from him finishing out his mold.
My baby’s thumbprint that will forever be there. As his hands grow, and he grows into a man…I will always have that small thumbprint in my bowl. That print will remind me of how my baby boy made me something special, just for me. It will remind me of his Kool-Aid kisses, his tight hugs, his innocent laugh and a time in our lives when he was a Momma’s boy.
No matter what I place inside that bowl, no matter how much it may be worth, that vessel will be more valuable.
And when the house becomes empty one day and the sounds of my children are mere memories, I will pick up that simple, clay bowl and slide my finger into my baby’s thumbprint…reflecting on the print he left with me; a print on my heart and in my heart-shaped bowl.
