It is just a plain, gray rock that is flat on one edge. Yet I keep it in a special place on my desk, for at a seemingly inconsequential point in my life, it caused me to realize how significant indeed are the unimportant moments.

On a family camping trip, high on the wooded bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River, my 3-year-old daughter and I found many fascinating things to see and do. One morning, we headed out for a hike in the "deep woods." She was picking up sticks and rocks as if each find was a treasure to be cherished forever.

"Hold this rock for me, please," she said, placing it in my hand. A few minutes later, I considered tossing the small rock away, when she wasn't watching. Instead, I absent-mindedly slipped it into my pocket.

As she ran ahead happily along the well-marked trail, descending into the forest, her constant chattering was a loud contrast to the silent scenery.

"This hill is too steep, you better carry me. . . . These sure are deep woods. . . . You put me down now. . . . Look at those leaves. . . . Hold my hand on these steps. . . . That tree fell down. . . . Look at that cave, a squirrel lives there, maybe. . . . Let me ride your back, my legs are tired. . . . Take my picture there. . . . You can carry these sticks now. . . ."

After a while, I asked her breathlessly if she still wanted to wear her cap. She handed it to me, wiping her ears and saying, "It's kinda hot now. You carry my hat. I'm kinda sweaty."
And so, on we hiked, I plodding along, she running or riding on my back at whim.
That evening, back in the tent, I pulled something from my pocket.

A rock? How did it get there?

Then I remembered. Looking at the small gray rock, I recalled my daughter's unrestrained excitement as we had followed the trail, and the babble of words that had tumbled out of her mouth. How quickly the hike had gone, and how easily such moments are tossed away.
My daughter lay in her sleeping bag, absorbed in the pictures of a book. The sticks she had collected eventually ended up in our campfire. The rocks she had treasured were all scattered--except for one.

This rock, unlike our quickly growing little girl, never changes. This gray rock sits on my desk, beside her picture.