The Statue

The rock statue seemed old, but I knew that compared to the hands that had hewn it, the rock was young. Sure it was older the my great grandmother, but my great grandmother is only 112.

I rubbed my hand across the smooth stone surface like so many had done before me. I knew it was silly, but old habits and traditions die hard. Every day for the last eighteen years I’ve rubbed my hand across the stone shield. I imagine that once the shield had been carved with detailed pictures, but it had long ago been worn smooth.

Even though I knew that the act held no magical power to keep me safe, I felt a comfort in the ritual – a quick touch and a quick prayer. It’s the prayer that brings me comfort – and the knowledge that the ritual reminds me to pray.

So once again I moved my hand across the smooth surface and remembered all those who had rubbed it in the past and imagined all those who would in the future. I also thought about the king that held the sword. It wasn’t the likeness of some human king, or even a elvish king. No this was the likeness of the heavily king – or what the dwarven sculptors imagined the king would look like some seven thousand years ago when they made it.

Did those sculptors know that a million hands would touch its surface and be encouraged as they headed out to danger – the words of hope uttered on the way out and the words of thanks on the way in. Did they know? Did they care? Did they make the statue for the benefit of man or simply because they felt the need to reflect God’s glory.

I figure it really doesn’t matter. Whether they were trying to or not, reflecting God’s glory can’t help but to encourage those who see the reflection.

So with reluctance, I let her fingers slip from the stone and let a prayer slip from my lips. Today would be a good day because it had started with a prayer and would end with one.