Her earrings catch my attention.
They are hammered gold, with crinkled edges that flash brilliant. I am captivated. I’ve heard about these earrings.
They were once smooth and square, polished and perfect. She treasured them, an unexpected gift from a friend. But she inadvertently dropped one on her office floor, impaling it on her wheelchair tire, the crunching sound betraying the damage.
A jeweler told her that he couldn’t fix it. But he could make the smooth one match the other. It was a risk, but she decided to trust him.
In the back room she heard the sounds of hammering and grinding. Did he know what he was doing? But he returned with a matching second earring. Marred and mangled. But strangely magnificent.
I stare at these earrings. They are exquisite. From my vantage, they are not marred at all. Quite the opposite, they look like the work of a skilled craftsman. The hammering has produced something breathtaking.
The lesson is vivid. I don’t want to struggle, to take the hard road, to be bruised. I’d prefer an easy, smooth life. But it is the pounding that produces character, character that reflects light. As I see the twisted gold shimmering, I am amazed at the beauty from what has been battered.
As we talk, my gaze shifts from her earrings to her hands. We’re having dinner and I’m watching her eat. This is not idle curiosity; I know with post-polio that my arms are failing and I too may struggle to feed myself. She frequently needs help and must be content with the way others help her. How they cut her food, what they put on her plate, when they can attend to her needs. View full post »