Church last week was about pearls. To that end one of the songs we sang included the words "that precious pearl of life..." It was my good fortune to be leading the music team, with a violinist, two women with guitars, and an expert on the ivories. The layers of vocals and instruments added to a rich sound. 

 

The minister outlined qualities of pearls that distinguish them from other jewels. 

 

They originate in a living creature. An oyster secretes the milky white substance over time, and after a diver removes the pearl, the oyster can be tossed back in the water. Even birth another. 

 

Each pearl is the result of pain. An irritant such as sand creeps into the shell, and to protect itself the oyster coats it with beauty. 

 

Pearls are more lovely when they are worn. Hidden away in a jewelry box, a string of pearls can lose its luster. The jostling against a woman's neck, or the rub of her fingers keeps it from growing dull. 

 

The metaphor spoke to me. 

 

The shiny white gems that evolve from struggle evolve slowly. Years ago I trusted in God, at least hypothetically. But the prickles of pain that evoke compassion have coated that trust to a deeper sheen. 

 

The true notions I collect, like the commandments, increase in value only if I use them. Wear them, rub my annoyances against them.