Poo Poo Brain Rock

Back in 2003, David and I had been to Spangle with a real estate agent twice to look at our house before we brought the boys out to give their opinions. I felt like I had completely assessed the property and taken note of every detail. I was wrong. When we arrived at the house, the first thing the boys did when they jumped out of the car was climb up onto a huge boulder that is located in the front yard. Until that moment I hadn’t noticed the giant rock, large enough for several children to stand on simultaneously. The tulips I noticed. The brown paint color I had seen. The rock—the first thing to capture the attention of my children—had been entirely overlooked by me.

From the day we moved in, this giant rock became the center of play. It was command central, a place for captives, the top of the mountain, or just a place to sit and make plans for the next adventure. In the early days of living here, in the midst of some series of games, the rock was given the name Poo Poo Brain Rock. Wouldn’t you know this was the name that stuck? In their defense, the boys were six and seven years old at the time, and now at the ripe old ages of eleven and twelve they deny ever giving the rock such a silly name. But it will live forever in my mind under that name, a name which inspires both glee and disdain. Glee: because I love the carefree whimsy that it represents. Disdain: because, well, that one is not hard to figure out.

But the thing that boggles my mind most about Poo Poo Brain Rock is that despite its enormity, despite the grandeur of its presence, I failed to notice it until my children were standing directly on top of it. Each day I look out my front window at that rock, and wonder how I could have missed it. It makes me wonder what else I’m missing. What phase of life will suddenly surprise me when I see myself or my children standing on top of it? What is looming in my life, large and significant, but unnoticed by me? Or perhaps even more importantly, on what am I standing right now?

My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness
I dare not trust the sweetest frame but wholly lean on Jesus’ name.
On Christ the solid rock I stand, all other ground is sinking sand.
All other ground is sinking sand.

I will never forget how my boys ran to that rock in the front yard as if it were a magnet. They couldn’t have stopped themselves from clamoring up on top of it. Touching it wasn’t enough. Being near it wouldn’t do. They had to climb it, and not just sit, but stand on it. Even today, though they jump off it, sword fight around it, and hide behind it, Poo Poo Brain Rock remains a sort of Home Base for every thing they do.

Like Poo Poo Brain rock is the central feature of my yard, Christ the solid rock is the central feature of my life. I, too, find that just being close to Him is not enough; I need to be in constant contact with Him. I am drawn to Him like a magnet. When I am standing on the Rock, I know that I am at Home Base. Safe. For the Psalmist the Rock was a place of comfort. For Moses the Rock was a source of life sustaining water. For many the Rock was a stumbling block. The rock in my yard has a meaningless name riddled with absurdity, but the Rock of my life is called Wonderful! Counselor! Mighty God! Everlasting Father! Prince of Peace!

He alone is my rock and my salvation; he is my fortress, I will never be shaken. Psalm 62:2

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