What Will We Build With the Stones?

By Ryan Michaels | The Maine Mirror

We spend so much of our lives trying to overcome what stands in our way. But perhaps our greatest strength is found not in what we can move alone, but in what becomes possible when we find one another.

August 9, 2026

Some walls are too large for one person to move. Maybe they were never meant to be moved alone.

There once was a man who stood before a wall.

It was enormous.

It stretched so far in both directions that he couldn’t see where it began or where it ended. It stood between him and everything he loved, everything he hoped for, and everything he still believed might be possible.

So he pushed.

He pushed with everything he had.

He searched for cracks. He tried climbing it. He tried going around it. He shouted toward the other side, hoping someone might hear him.

Some days he was angry.

Some days he was exhausted.

And some days he wondered whether continuing to push mattered at all.

But every morning, the wall remained.

Eventually, the man began believing something dangerous:

If I were stronger, I would have moved it by now.

Maybe that is one of the cruelest things an obstacle can convince us to believe.

That the size of the wall is somehow a measurement of our strength.

That if we haven’t fixed the problem, escaped the circumstance, changed the system, healed the wound, restored the relationship, or found the answer, then something must be wrong with us.

So we push harder.

Often alone.

Until one day, while the man’s hands were pressed against the cold stone, he heard footsteps behind him.

Another man approached.

He looked at the wall.

“I’ve got one too,” he said.

Then came a mother.

A veteran.

A grandmother.

Someone who had spent years trying to make their voice heard.

Then another.

And another.

They carried different stories and different scars. Some had lost years. Some had lost relationships. Some had lost opportunities. Some had lost confidence.

Some had nearly lost hope.

But every one of them understood what it felt like to stand before something that seemed impossible to overcome.

The man looked at the growing crowd.

“I don’t know how to bring it down,” he admitted.

A woman stepped beside him.

“Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to do it by yourself.”

She placed her hand against the wall.

Someone placed theirs beside hers.

Then another.

Soon there were dozens.

Then hundreds.

Nobody climbed onto a platform.

Nobody demanded to lead.

Nobody asked whose suffering mattered most.

Nobody worried about who would receive the credit if the wall finally moved.

They simply stood beside one another.

And pushed.

At first, nothing happened.

Then someone heard it.

A tiny crack.

For people who had spent so long believing nothing could ever change, that tiny sound meant everything.

They pushed again.

The crack grew.

Again.

Dust fell between the stones.

When someone became tired, another person took their place.

When someone stumbled, another caught them.

When someone lost hope, somebody reminded them why they had begun.

And when one person’s strength ran out, there were other hands beside theirs.

Then, with one enormous effort from ordinary people who had finally stopped facing their impossible obstacles separately—

the wall fell.

Sunlight poured through.

Some people cried.

Some laughed.

Some embraced people who had been strangers only moments before.

Others simply stared toward the horizon.

They had spent so much time fighting the wall that they had almost forgotten there was a world beyond it.

But the story doesn’t end when the wall falls.

Thousands of broken stones covered the ground.

Pieces of the thing that had stood in their way for so long.

The man picked one up.

It was heavy.

Part of him wanted to throw it away.

Why would anyone want to carry a piece of something that had caused so much pain?

But then he looked toward the path ahead.

It wasn’t easy.

There were holes.

Mud.

Steep climbs.

Places where someone walking alone might stumble.

So the man carried the stone forward.

He knelt and placed it into the earth.

“What are you doing?” someone asked.

He looked at the stone beneath his hand.

“This doesn’t have to be part of a wall anymore.”

Someone understood.

They picked up another stone and placed it beside his.

Then another.

And another.

Soon, the same hands that had torn down the wall were carrying its pieces forward.

Stone by stone, they began building a road.

The stones that had once been obstacles became foundations.

The stones that separated people became bridges.

The stones that caused pain became stepping stones for someone else’s journey.

They couldn’t change what those stones had been.

But together, they could decide what those stones would become.

And maybe that is one of the most important choices we ever make.

We don’t always get to choose what happens to us.

We don’t choose every loss.

We don’t choose every injustice.

We don’t choose every betrayal, diagnosis, failure, closed door, broken relationship, or impossible circumstance placed in our path.

And healing doesn’t require pretending those things didn’t hurt.

But there may come a day when we are faced with a different question.

What will I build with what remains?

Because surviving the wall is one victory.

Building something from its stones is another.

The road eventually led them back to others.

As they continued forward, they began noticing people in the distance.

People standing before walls of their own.

Some were pushing.

Some were shouting.

Some were sitting silently beneath them, convinced nobody was coming.

The people building the road could have kept walking.

Their wall was gone.

They had earned the right to move forward.

But they remembered.

They remembered what it felt like to stand there alone.

So they went back.

They reached through cracks.

They extended their hands.

They stood beside strangers who still believed they were supposed to fight alone.

And they told them:

“We can’t promise you this will be easy. But you don’t have to push alone anymore.”

More hands touched more walls.

More cracks appeared.

Whenever another wall fell, they gathered those stones too.

The road became wider.

Longer.

Stronger.

Eventually, thousands of people were walking it together.

Parents.

Children.

Veterans.

Neighbors.

Advocates.

People whose lives looked nothing alike but who had discovered something profoundly human:

Pain does not have to make us competitors.

It can remind us how desperately we need one another.

One morning, the man stopped.

He looked far behind him.

Somewhere in the distance was the place where his wall had once stood.

He remembered believing he would have to become strong enough to destroy it himself.

He remembered believing asking for help meant failure.

He remembered measuring his strength by whether the wall moved.

Then he looked around.

Thousands of people were walking beside him.

Someone called for him to come to the front.

But the man smiled.

He stepped backward instead.

Past the first row.

Then the second.

Then farther.

Until eventually, you couldn’t tell him apart from everyone else.

Because somewhere along that road, he had understood something.

The goal was never to become the strongest person in the crowd.

It wasn’t to stand above everyone else.

It wasn’t to make sure everyone remembered his name.

The goal was to help people remember one another.

There will always be walls.

Some will be built by circumstances.

Some by fear.

Some by mistakes.

Some by grief.

Some by systems.

Some by things entirely outside our control.

And some will be so enormous that one person could spend a lifetime pushing without moving them an inch.

But perhaps strength was never supposed to mean doing everything alone.

Strength can look like extending a hand.

It can look like accepting one.

It can mean saying, “I need help.”

It can mean answering, “I’m here.”

It can mean standing beside someone else’s wall even after your own has fallen.

And perhaps the greatest victory isn’t destroying the wall at all.

Perhaps it’s deciding what happens next.

What will we do with the rubble?

We can spend our lives staring backward at it.

We can carry every stone as anger.

We can allow the wall to become the only story we ever tell.

Or, when we’re ready, we can begin building.

Not because what happened didn’t matter.

Not because we’re required to forgive everything.

Not because pain magically becomes good simply because something meaningful eventually grows from it.

But because the thing that hurt us does not deserve the final word on what our lives become.

A stone from a wall can become part of a road.

Something that once divided people can help connect them.

Something that once stopped us can help carry someone else forward.

Something painful can become part of a foundation beneath another person’s feet.

And every person who walks that road can add something.

Another stone.

Another hand.

Another story.

Another reason to continue.

Someday, people may walk roads built from struggles they never witnessed.

They won’t know every person’s name.

They won’t know who pushed first.

They won’t know who heard the first crack.

They may never know who placed the first stone in the road.

And that’s okay.

Because meaningful change was never supposed to depend on everyone remembering who received the credit.

It is about leaving something behind that makes the journey a little better for whoever comes next.

So perhaps this Sunday, the question isn’t simply:

What wall are you facing?

Maybe the deeper questions are:

Who is standing beside you?

Whose wall could use another set of hands?

And, perhaps most importantly:

What will you build with the stones you’ve already survived?

You don’t have to move every wall today.

You don’t have to carry every stone.

You don’t have to be the strongest person in the crowd.

Just don’t forget to look beside you.

There may already be a hand there.

And if there isn’t?

Perhaps yours can be the first one extended.

Because an obstacle can exhaust one person.

It can frighten them.

It can convince them nothing will ever change.

But when enough people decide that someone else’s wall matters too, even things that once seemed permanent can begin to crack.

And when they finally fall, we are left with a choice.

We can stare at the rubble.

Or we can pick up the stones.

Build something better.

And leave a road for the people coming behind us.

That might be what growing together really means.

A Sunday Invitation to Reflect

Before you move into another week, take a few quiet minutes today and think about one stone you are still carrying.

Not every stone.

Just one.

Maybe it represents something that hurt you.

Something you lost.

Something you fought against.

Something you wish had happened differently.

Something you have spent years trying to understand.

Ask yourself:

Am I still carrying this stone as part of the wall, or am I ready to use it to build something?

You don’t have to be grateful for what happened.

You don’t have to pretend the stone isn’t heavy.

And you don’t have to know exactly what you’re going to build.

Maybe today your only step is recognizing that the stone is in your hands.

Then consider one more question:

Could something I have lived through make the road a little easier for someone coming behind me?

Maybe it’s a conversation.

A phone call.

An apology.

A boundary.

A story finally shared.

A lesson passed along.

A hand extended to somebody standing before a wall you recognize all too well.

Whatever it is, make it intentional.

Choose one small way this week to turn a stone into part of a road.

Because perhaps our lives aren’t ultimately measured by how many walls we managed to tear down.

Perhaps they are measured by what we built from the pieces—

and how many people discovered they didn’t have to walk alone because we were here.

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