New life in old rocks

 A few weeks ago, Hal and I took one of our retirement community’s field trips, this time to the Rice Museum of Rocks and Minerals. We were just a small group on the bus that morning, six dedicated rock hounds and several staff members. The ride itself took us through beautiful Oregon farm country. The museum is located in a large field outside the city of Hillsboro, appropriate for a natural history museum.

The several buildings themselves are lovely, constructed of Oregon wood and rocks. According to their website, “the museum showcases not just rocks and minerals, but also fossils, meteorites, lapidary art, and gemstones from both the Pacific Northwest and all around the world.”

The name “Oregon” usually makes me think of God’s beauty shouting from the trees, mountains, and oceans. But this experience reminded me that God’s splendor sometimes hides under the earth. The displays fascinated me. I especially loved the petrified wood examples, slices of incredible creativity. And the crystals, of course, and the thunder eggs, and lacy fern fossils, all invited our admiration.

I walked around slowly, but not nearly as slowly as Hal did. (That’s always the way with us in museums.) He paused to read each description and look intently at each specimen. He didn’t make it all the way through the museum before it was time to board the bus and head home. (I had made it to every display, with time left over to rest.)

Hal is a true rock hound, while I just like to look at and handle pretty rocks. He collected rocks since he was a little kid growing up in Eastern Washington, a rock-rich region. At one point he decided he wanted to be a geologist when he grew up. But that was not to be.

He had to leave his rocks at home when he went off to college. That was hard. God took his life in another direction. We went to build a new life in Bolivia in 1972, and he discovered that land to be another rock-rich place. He enjoyed taking our kids rock hunting on the Bolivian altiplano, occasionally finding fossils and arrowheads. We found a favorite rocky valley between two hills that we named Amethyst Valley for the many small purple gems hidden near the surface.

I don’t think he ever regretted giving up his dream to become a geologist and instead follow God in Christian service to Bolivia. But he never gave up his love of rocks.

Years ago I wrote this poem for him:

To a Would-Be Geologist
(Turned Missionary)

To scrounge the soil and bring up rough treasure,
to extract earth’s secrets from glacier and volcano,
to study the strata, measure the masses,

then line the evidence on shelves, catalogued
(agate, obsidian, soapstone, shale):
this was light to you and life. But now,

rather than rocks, you’ve put your dreams
on the shelf, chosen to dig on different
ground. Instead of the concreteness of

excavations, labs, and lecture halls, you wrestle
the tougher intangibles of spirit and soul.
Instead of hypotheses, you make disciples,

and the mountains you tunnel now
only faith can move. Maybe someday,
you say, you’ll collect kingdom gems, classify

crystal near the throne. Perhaps. Today’s obedience
treads another turf. But your labor adds living stones
to the Temple. The Rock of Ages holds you fast.

 

Here are some photos I took in the Rice Museum:

Petrified Elm

                                                           Rhodochrosite 

                                                Wulfinite

Fossil Fern