From Water and Stone

It was when I was seven (or maybe eight, I suppose) on a dark and dreary sort of day when the leaves were brown and the sky was gray. And I was at my grandmother’s house—and sitting alone at her kitchen table playing with a rabbit. Not a real live rabbit, mind you. But a little china rabbit that always sat on a little shelf with three tiers there in the corner by the table. And the rabbit was a gift, I think. And I had the feeling that it came from somebody she thought an awful lot of—somebody close to her heart, I mean. Because she told me that little brown rabbit was very special to her. And when I stayed over sometimes at her house, she would take it down from the shelf. And she’d put it there on the table. And she’d bring two glasses of milk and two lemon cookies, and we’d have our “treat,” she called it. And when we did that, she would always tell me a story—a story about a little brown rabbit that hopped through the woods. Or she’d tell me the story of the hare and the tortoise, or some other little story she had probably made up. And that was one of my favorite things when I was a boy—to sit with my grandma and hold the rabbit and hear her tell one of her stories. And sometimes, every now and then, I guess, she’d let me sit and play with it there at the table…if I promised to be careful. And I promised. I did. And I tried to be careful. Because I knew that that rabbit was special and it was something that meant a lot to her. But one day—a dark and dreary day it was—it slipped out of my hand, and it fell over the edge of the table. And there was a big round rug under the table, but it wasn’t that soft. And when the little china rabbit hit the floor, it was broken in two. And that very moment, I think, something inside me felt broken, too. And I ran and I hid behind the old shed at the far end of the garden. I ran all the way round to the other side. And I sat down in the dirt and cried and cried. Because it wasn’t just the rabbit I’d broken, it was everything. For that rabbit was special. My grandma just loved it. She did. And it made her think of someone who meant an awful lot to her. And I broke it. And I knew she’d be mad. She’d be so mad she’d never want to see me again. She’d never let me sit at her table or stay at her house. And she’d never tell me anymore stories. So I sat there crushed and broken, like someone who wanted so much to go home, but would never be welcome or wanted there again. And that’s where I belonged, I thought. Down in the dirt and all by myself. And I remember thinking, “No one will ever find me here.” But after a while, I heard something, I thought. And it sounded like footsteps coming round the side of the building. And I knew who it was. It was her. It was my grandma. She was coming to scold me. I knew it. So I looked down at the dirt and just kind of braced myself. Because she was about to tell me that I was bad, and that she was ashamed, and that she never wanted to see me again. But she came and she stood there, and she didn’t say anything. She just knelt down beside me, scooped me up in her arms, and carried me all the way home. And she put me down in a chair at her kitchen table. And there was the rabbit, all in one piece. And she put her arms round me and said, “You know, if I had to, I could probably get along without that rabbit… But I don’t think I could ever do without you.” And that day she let me have two lemon cookies and a glass full of milk. And she told me a story about a little brown rabbit that was broken in two and put back together with a whole lot of love and a wee bit of glue. Isn’t that what Isaiah said to the people of Judah when their hearts were broken? And isn’t that what God says to you and to all who are homesick for his love and his peace? The message God speaks to you in Advent says, “There is Someone who wants to bring you home—someone who can’t bear the thought of being without you. And he loves you so much that he won’t let anything stand between you and his heart.”