Grandpa's Rock

Writing Prompt for today was to tell a story about an important item you have.

This is the story of my smooth black rock—my grandpa’s rock.

My paternal grandfather, Henry, was the youngest of ten children. He was the last of five boys, but only he and one brother lived to adulthood. Two of his brothers passed at birth or shortly after, one at just three years old, and another at eighteen. His parents were poor tenant farmers, moving from place to place as they worked the land. Grandpa Henry was born and raised, for the most part, in Johnston County, North Carolina.

His parents were older when he was born, and by the time he was thirteen, he suffered an unimaginable loss—his mother passed away from a stroke at just 56 years old. Two years later, his father died of heart failure at the age of 71, leaving him orphaned at fifteen.

At some point during those difficult years, on the farm where they had been living, my grandfather picked up a small black rock. It was more than just a stone to him—it became a symbol of something he had heard many times growing up: "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone." Carrying that rock with him everywhere, he used it as a reminder to withhold judgment, to live with kindness and understanding—values that had been important to his parents.

For 59 years, from August 1929 until his passing in August 1988, he kept that rock with him. The decades of being held in his hands smoothed its surface, shaping it into what it is today. He wasn’t a man of great wealth or status, but he carried himself with quiet dignity, treating others with respect. Even though he had suffered great loss at a young age, he didn’t let bitterness take root. Instead, he believed in compassion.

I wonder how many times he must have reached into his pocket and felt the weight of that rock, using it as a silent reminder in moments of frustration or hardship. Perhaps he thought of it when making difficult choices or when encountering someone who had wronged him. Maybe it helped him forgive.

In September 1988, my grandmother, Julia, placed the rock in my hands. She knew how much I loved stories and believed I would treasure this one. And she was right.

Now, after 37 years in my care, this rock remains my most cherished possession. It connects me to my grandfather, to his parents, and to a past I can never fully know. Who knows how long it lay on that farm before he found it? What moments did it silently witness?

It has now been in our family for 96 years. Unlike my grandfather, I don’t carry it with me every day—I fear losing it. But the lesson it carries is as present as ever.

It reminds me not to judge. To remember that no one is perfect. To love others as we walk this shared journey called life.

There have been times in my own life when I’ve struggled with judgment or resentment, and in those moments, I think of my grandfather and his rock. The smoothness of the stone tells a story—not just of time, but of patience, of choosing understanding over condemnation. It has passed through generations, gathering meaning with each hand that has held it.

I hope that, one day, I will pass it down as well. Not just as an object, but as a lesson—one that has endured for nearly a century, and, I hope, will endure for many more.