The little rock broke off from the face of the mountain, and down it fell landing so hard on a large slab of marble painfully breaking into two.
One piece bounced off towards a tree hitting an acorn clean off its branch, starting it on its own journey rolling towards its final resting place buried under layers of dirt.
The other piece of rock would skip its way down, roll across a leaf, and launch into the air, soaring terrifyingly high (for a tiny rock at least), and drop into a lake, sinking to the very bottom of the murky water, someday to be worn away little by little by the flow.
At the same time of the rock’s immersion, a little girl tugged on her dad’s finger while pointing to the lake, “The lake is making circles!” she said excitedly. The dad got on one knee, bringing himself closer to her size. “That’s a ripple. Isn’t it pretty?” “What’s a ripple?” she asked. “A ripple is the water’s way of saying welcome. When something touches the water, he welcomes them with floating circles.” “Do you think the water will welcome me?” The little girl asked. “Of course.” the dad said “Touch the water with your foot.”
The little girl slipped off her sandal and touched the surface lightly, causing circles to form. The little girl laughed. “I’m making circles!” The dad smiled as he watched this simple joy. The stone under the lake never knew how he triggered the day’s joy for Diane, and how she would go to the pond to pray while watching ripples when her son would die of cancer 40 years later. He would never see the roots sprouting from the acorn, nor the oak tree it would become, nor the treehouse it would host. And neither will we ever see, see the impact of most of the ripples of our lives.
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