Metropolitan United Church

    The thing about collecting stones on the beach is knowing when to stop. Airlines have a weight limit, and pant pockets only stretch so far. (I tried to barter with my stones at the local shop for chocolate, claiming that today was "Ancient Iona Day", but my staff colleagues at the desk weren't biting!)

    As my eyes scanned the sand for treasures, I began to wish that I could find one gold piece, or, better, a hoard of ancient viking treasure. One "silver bullet" would change everything. One lottery win, one hefty inheritance, one meaty contract as a recording star, and life would be spent on easy street.

    That pursuit can be a real time-waster. Oh, it happens to some, with mixed results, by all accounts. As I walked, feeling the sun on my head, and the gentle, fresh breeze in my face; as I scanned the near shore of Mull, and nearly coaxed a young lamb to take grass from my hand, I began to realize that I already possess the "silver bullet". Each day of life is one; each conversation and each new friend, each battle faced, each victory, and perhaps, even each defeat. Indeed there is nothing that comes our way, from highest joy to most profound tragedy that cannot, with grace, perception and time, become that thing that leads us on, breaks us through, takes us to a place of richer living, truer seeing, deeper hearing, more courageous living.

    Some stones I shall bring home as sacred. Others I shall return to the beach for others to find. Three large ones, beautiful but far too heavy to carry, I buried in the sand of the hillside, high and away from the tide. These shall remain as mystery, as my sacrament of gratitude for this island and all that has happened to me here, a "silver bullet" of rocks, grasses, sand, seas and souls.