I was just a kid when Mom first took me hiking through the hills of southern California near our home.
My favorite thing to do was search the trail for things I thought might impress her: a twisted tree branch, an unusual wildflower, a curiously shaped leaf. One afternoon, while we rested on a mossy stump, I spied a river rock the size of a shoe box. It was shaped like a perfect heart. “Look!” I shouted to Mom. “Isn’t that cool?”
“God must love this spot as much as we do,” she said.
We pulled the rock from the mud, lugged it back up the mountainside and washed it off. Back home we painted it bright red and placed it in our garden.
From then on, the whole family kept an eye out for heart-shaped rocks. “Look what I came across on my business trip,” Dad said, handing me a gray stone. My brother, Matt, found one on a camping trip. The best made it into our collection.
When I was 15, our family moved from California to the Italian Riviera. Uprooting my life was exciting and terrifying. Holding tight to our family tradition gave me comfort. Soon we discovered heart rocks in Portofino, Venice and Florence. Each one a reminder that no matter where we are, God’s love is never far away.
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