The Curious Case of the River of Story Stones.
- MS
- 7 hours ago
- 11 min read
It began on an ordinary afternoon—the kind where sunlight hums its own melody and time slows just enough for you to breathe. The little shop at the corner—known by few yet discovered by those who are ready—waited with its door slightly ajar. A hand-painted sign read: “Closed for Grace — Gone Walking by the River.”
Inside, the scent of cocoa and honey lingered in the air, mingling with the faint whisper of stories yet to be told. Shelves lined with glass jars caught the light like tiny rainbows—each jar labeled not with candies, but with truths waiting to be tasted: Courage Dust, Kindness Crumbs, and Forgiveness Flakes.
Just beyond the back door, a narrow stone path led to the River of Story Stones—a quiet stream that carried the memories, questions, and forgotten pieces of every heart that ever entered the shop. Each smooth stone shimmered with a faint glow, as if holding a secret waiting to be gently uncovered.
That's where Jesus waited—by the river’s bend—His sleeves rolled up, eyes kind, laughter soft as the morning light. “Shall we begin today’s story?” He would ask, handing me a small basket lined with velvet. With that, the adventure would start, gathering clues not from chaos, but from calm; not from fear, but from the flow of love itself.
Dear heart, have you ever wondered where your untold stories go—those that never found the right words, or the tears that never found the right time to fall? What if every forgotten fragment of your heart had a place to rest, to be polished by grace until it shone again?
Welcome to The Chocolate Clue Shop—where the bell above the door rings like laughter caught in copper, where even your questions are wrapped in ribbons of love, and every clue leads not to fear, but to healing.
The Path Between Cocoa and Water
The morning began with the sound of a small brass bell and the warmth of the air. I flipped the sign to OPEN, and the Chocolate Clue Shop came to life as it always does—gently, precisely, and with a touch of magic. Copper pots on the back stove released ribbons of steam; the marble slab shone like a tranquil lake; and amber light filtered through the front windows, transforming the dust motes into floating clues.
I arranged the first tray: dark truffles dusted with cocoa, a line of pralines adorned with tiny magnifying glasses, and a plate of candied orange peels that resembled slices of sunrise. The room was filled with the aromas of roasted cocoa and vanilla, alongside a subtle hint of orange blossom. Somewhere down the street, a violinist tuned his instrument, and the note drifted into the shop like a secret waiting to be discovered.
“Good morning, brave heart,” I whispered to the room. The coffee machine responded with a soft hiss, and the kettle seemed to nod in agreement.
Yet, beneath the comfort of my morning routine—the careful pouring, tempering, and ribboning of ganache—something tugged at me. There was a stillness within, as if the day itself had gently pressed a finger to its lips, urging me to listen.
I wiped my hands on a linen towel, moved to the front door, and—without fully understanding why—I turned the sign to read BACK IN 30 MINUTES. The bell chimed once, like a promise. I wrapped my scarf, took my favorite alley, and followed the familiar scent that often finds me before I can find it: the smell of water, green and fresh, as if the morning were steeping a secret by the river.
At the River
The alley opened up to a narrow lane where rosemary grew through a fence, and morning glories climbed like sky-colored handwriting. I walked on until the city loosened its grip, and the riverbank began—a band of willows, sloping grass, and a hush that felt older than names.
He was there. Jesus stood where the grass met the wet stones, hands in His pockets like a friend waiting at a café table. He looked as if He had all the time in the world and was delighted to spend it here.
“You closed the shop,” He said, smiling.
“I left a note,” I replied, stepping up beside Him. “Sometimes the clues ask for air.”
“They do,” He said. “And sometimes they ask for water.”
We listened to the river. Its surface held the sky like a secret, the slow current carrying flecks of light like small letters drifting home.
“Tell Me what tugs at you,” He said.
I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Sorrow,” I said softly. “And stories. I’m learning the difference. Grief flows; sorrow sinks. My stories feel heavy—like stones with sentences carved into them.”
He nodded, allowing me the time to express my thoughts. “You’re seeing the truth, little one.”
Understanding the Psychology of a River and a Body That Remembers
We walked until the willows formed a glade and the current slowed to a glassy bend. He knelt, trailing His fingers across the water.
“Think of feelings as water,” He said. “They’re pure energy meant to flow. These are the emotions that struggle to find words—grief, anger, disappointment, the longing for validation. The body doesn’t judge them; it simply holds them until compassion arrives. But the mind favors meaning over movement, so it wraps feelings in sentences.”
He looked up, eyes warm. “This isn’t only about belief—it’s about emotions that never had permission to move. They calcified, became stones in the body, because grief, anger, disappointment, and longing for belonging were never allowed to flow through the nervous system with compassion and witness.”
He gestured toward the river. “Those sentences are your stories.”
“Stories like I should have done more, or It will always end the same, or God feels distant when I’m in pain,” I said.
He nodded. “Yes. When a story binds to a feeling, movement stalls, and the water that should flow begins to pool. Your inner life—the center of your being—starts to hold what was meant to move, not because you failed, but because you tried to stay safe.”
“So the body holds onto the story until the heart can finish it,” I said, thinking of the careful way I temper chocolate—never rushing the process to achieve the shine.
“The body is loyal,” He said. “It remembers for you. It stores what love intends to heal and keeps what the heart can’t yet name. You’ve carried more songs than your voice could sing. Let’s listen.”
We stepped to a shallow inlet where the river left a pocket of still water as clear as glass. Beneath it lay smooth stones—some pale, some the color of smoke. Light flickered across them like golden handwriting.
“These are the ones you named,” He said. “Story-stones. Would you like to learn their language and let them go?”
“Yes,” I breathed, feeling both new and ancient.
The First Stone – The Silent Ache (Grief)
I reached into the water and lifted a smooth gray stone, heavy with memory.
“For every sorrow I tucked behind a smile,” I whispered, “for every goodbye I tried to swallow so no one would worry.”
The stone warmed in my palms.
“This one was never wrong to feel,” Jesus said quietly. “Grief is the body’s way of testifying that love mattered.”
My throat loosened. The tears came without apology—salt joining the river. As I placed the stone into the current, light gathered in its cracks, turning them to gold. The river’s voice shifted—softer, like a sigh that had waited centuries to be released.
“When grief comes to visit,” I murmured, “I let myself feel the loss and still trust that love endures. Tears are how my body prays; they’re not a setback but a release. What feels lost is making space for what is being made new. I don’t have to be strong right now—honesty is strength.”
He smiled with quiet certainty. “Exactly.”
The Second Stone – The Guarded Flame (Anger)
The next stone burned faintly, pulsing with contained fire.
“For every time I softened my anger to stay acceptable,” I said, “for every truth I buried under politeness.”
He smiled—half mischief, half mercy. “Anger is the guardian of what you love. It was never your enemy; let it speak without burning you.”
I set it into the water. A hiss rose like incense, and steam curled upward, perfumed with wild mint. He touched the back of my hand. “See? When love holds anger, it becomes clarity.”
I breathed deeply. “My anger shows me what matters; I can listen without letting it scorch me. I honor my fire and choose to channel it toward healing, not harm. This heat is energy returning to motion—I thank it and guide it into light.”
He nodded. “Anger is the body’s way of saying something sacred was crossed.Let it refine, not control.”
The Third Stone – The Hollow Distance (Disappointment)
This one felt cool, hollow, as if an echo lived inside it.
“For every time I felt forgotten,” I said, “for every hope that dimmed before it bloomed.”
He placed His hand over mine. “Disappointment is love that dared to hope. Let Me breathe through what you call failure until you remember—presence was never gone.”
I closed my eyes. “Hope didn’t die here; it’s resting until I’m ready to hold it differently. I release the outcome and keep the openness. Even when what I prayed for didn’t appear, Love didn’t leave the room. I trade resignation for wonder—as goodness is still unfolding unseen.”
He nodded toward the wider current. “Yes. Disappointment shows where hope once stretched its hands.
It isn’t failure; it’s proof you dared to expect goodness. When you let the ache breathe, hope plants itself in deeper soil.”
As the stone slipped beneath the current, ripples spread like arms learning to open again.
The ache inside my chest followed them outward.
The Fourth Stone – The Quiet Audition (Performance)
The final stone was smooth and dense, humming with effort.
“For every quiet audition I forgot to cancel,” I whispered, “for every role I rehearsed so I wouldn’t be left behind.”
He laughed softly. “You were never meant to earn belonging. Rest is your true rehearsal.”
He looked at the stone with such tenderness that it nearly undid me.
“It’s the habit of the heart that tries to earn what was freely given,” He said.
“When you keep performing peace while hiding pain—smiling through exhaustion because you think you must be fine to be worthy of love.”
I swallowed hard. “I’ve done that more times than I can count.”
“Love doesn’t need your performance,” He whispered. “It only asks for your presence.”
“I no longer need to earn my place; I already belong,” I said softly. “Rest is holy; grace can carry what effort once carried. My value doesn’t rise or fall with productivity. I am free to create, not to prove.”
He nodded, not in judgment but in understanding.
“You learned that the world rewarded you when you pleased it and withdrew when you didn’t. Proving yourself became safer than resting.”
“So it’s not pride?” I asked.
“No,” He said, eyes warm with knowing. “It’s protection—but protection becomes a prison when it keeps you from grace.”
I smiled. “Performance was a way to seek safety when love felt uncertain. It was never proof of worth—only a signal that belonging mattered. Now I choose rest over proving, intimacy over image, grace over grind.”
I let it go. It vanished into the water without a splash, as if the river had been waiting with open hands.
The current slowed, then brightened. Something in me matched its rhythm—peace, not performance, conducting the flow.
The Body’s Way of Saying “Enough”
We sat on the grass, and the sun warmed the backs of my hands. A dragonfly stitched blue thread across the water and tied it to a reed.
“Talk to Me about the body,” I said softly. “Without the fear. Just the truth.”
He nodded. “Think of the body as your inner garden. When stories become tied to feelings, the garden pauses. It holds weight for you until you can tend to it. You’ve called that story—stones, and that’s a good name. When you bring them to Me, you’re not failing; you’re gardening with Me.”
He tapped His chest. “Your heart knows flow. Your middle knows digestion—the gentle separation of what nourishes from what can return to the earth. When stories stop moving, both places wait. When you release them, both places sing.”
“Can we make it practical?” I asked, smiling. “You know I love steps.”
“Of course,” He said. “Steps not as homework, but as hospitality to your own soul.”
“The garden inside you is breathing again,” He added. “Every place that once held weight will soon sprout something gentle.”
I closed my eyes and felt it—the hum beneath my ribs, warmth in my belly, loosened space in my chest.
“So the body forgives too?” I asked.
He nodded. “Always. The body never hated you; she was only waiting for truth to reach her. Compassion is her native language.”
Back to the Shop with New Hands
We stood and began walking back. The bell of the Chocolate Clue Shop rang faintly, as if cocoa and copper had been waiting for us.
“One more thing,” He said as we reached the edge of the willow.
“When you return to your work, let your hands remember what your heart has learned. Stir gently. Don’t rush the shine. Let sweetness teach you patience.”
I laughed. “You always speak of chocolate like it’s a parable.”
“It speaks to you,” He replied, eyes bright.
At the shop's entrance, I paused. “What if a new challenge appears?”
“Then you know the way,” He said. “From shop to river, from weight to release. I’ll meet you at the water every time.”
“You know,” I said, “the first stone feels like a new lens. The second is like a new step. The third, a new address. And the fourth like…” He waited. “Like a new silence,” I said. He smiled. “A silence that doesn’t accuse.”
“When you need to remember,” He said, “come back to the river—but also, touch what you’re holding now.”
“What am I holding?”
“Permission,” He said. “To belong before you explain. To grow before you perform. To be with Me before you make sense of it.”
“I love this case,” I said.
He smiled and spoke a blessing that felt like sunlight: “Peace to your heart’s river; peace to your center. Let what is heavy become seed.”
I touched the door, and the bell chimed.
The room smelled of warmth and new beginnings. When I placed the next tray on the marble, my movements felt unburdened—as if the river flowed through my wrists and the stories had learned to turn into light again.
Whisper to the Heart
Beloved, sometimes the soul heals through conversation, but the body heals through permission.
Each uncried tear, each silenced no, each hope shelved “for later,” becomes a stone waiting for water.
When you meet your river with Jesus beside you, you’re not relieving pain—you’re letting movement return to what was frozen. He never asks you to throw anything away; He teaches the current how to sing again.
Bring the stones with their messages. He will read them once, with compassion, and then return them to the water. Where the old story spoke of always and never, He will teach your body sometimes and now.
Your worth was never on trial. Come rest by the river. Let Him wash away the false stories written on your heart—the ones that said you had to be louder, better, or more visible to be loved. Let the river complete what it began. He is here—closer than your breath—every time.
Reflections Between the Stones
Which feeling in your body has waited the longest for compassion?
What might it sound like to thank that feeling for carrying weight until now?
Imagine yourself at the river—what color would your first stone be, and what would you whisper before releasing it?
How can you offer your body small acts of kindness this week—rest, breath, movement, nourishment—so flow continues?
Psalm 34 : 18 – “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
Ezekiel 36 : 26 – “I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you.”
Matthew 11 : 28–29 – “Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.”
John 7 : 38 – “Whoever believes in Me, as Scripture has said, rivers of living water will flow from within them.”
Isaiah 61 : 3 – “To bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning.”
