The backyard carpet of grass was dressed in bright green as spring had made way for summer. My dad had freshly mowed it with his older model mower, neat straight rows, creating a summertime backdrop for the two seater metal swings surrounded by a crisp old fashioned picket fense with a swinging door in the middle, held by a metal hitch, dividing the neighbors yard and ours, in a friendly manner of course.
My mom’s freshly planted garden sat perfectly in the back corner of the yard, framed by the freshly mowed grass. My 5 year old self skipped happily into the back of the yard where my dad had made a pass along the back close to our small town road. It led to my favorite spot. A place to sit…. The rock.
Being five, it seemed much larger than it really was. A smooth angled surface was just perfect for a place to watch the early spring robins intently hopping on my dad’s freshly mowed grass, tugging at morsels of worm, or just watching the latest 70s cars and trucks moving intentionally back-and-forth on the edge of our town road. It was a different time. A slower time.
My mom’s yellow perennials seemed to wave at me on my perch; the large trunk and branches of what felt like a grandmother oak tree shaded my spot on the rock like a protective maternal hug. I sighed a 5 year old sigh. It was a haven of sorts. It was my haven when life got too noisy in my 5 year old world where I could just be me… and whatever rest meant to a 5 yr old mind.
Now, 50 plus years later, the road to my grandchildren’s homes brings me past the now even larger oak shading the rock, which seems so much smaller now. I proceed to tell the same story they hear every time we pass by as they ride in my SUV’s back seat.
“This is where Grandma used to sit on the rock.” They crane their little necks as they follow my gestures in the direction of the rock . It happens often, it seems. And each time, I start telling the story of the Rock, the grandchildren chirp… “Grandma! There is your rock!” and beat me to it. I guess I’ve told them that story 1 time too many times already. I’m glad they remember.
But I want the next generation to know where my rock of rest had been all those years. But more importantly, I want my next generation to know where my rock of rest is now in my life, and has been for many years. The “ROCK of ages,…” JESUS❤️.
The hymn “Rock of Ages” cleft for me, Let me hide myself in thee, brings my thoughts back to the words in the navy blue church hymnal as a five year old. The words didn’t have much meaning then… My 5 year old self had not lived enough life yet to have the need for the “Rock of rest,”… an unmovable place of “rest” called JESUS.
Looking back on the memories of my rock, I realized my need for some quiet rest. Even at the age of 5. It serves as a remembrance of how our minds need a steady “rock of rest” in different ways in different seasons.
As I continue to travel that road that passes my childhood rock, my prayer continues to be for the future generations…my grandchildren…that they too will find the ultimate ROCK…the ROCK of REST… JESUS❤️
In the Moment 