The knife and stone.

It was a knife handed down three generations. To the young recipient, the gift was a connection to his past, a gateway to adulthood. It was his turn to carry it, and then, one day, pass it on to his child.

He carried the knife wherever he went and placed it on his dresser each night with the reverence of a priest, but the knife reamained in its sheaf for protection. His father reminded him it was a gift to be used, so the boy began using the knife more and more each day, always wiping the blade clean each night. Eventually, the knife became dull, and his father taught him perhaps the most important lesson of all: how to sharpen the blade.

“A blade does no good if not kept sharp,” his father began. "To sharpen it, you must rub it against stone. There are many types of stone that work, but only stone is strong enough to sharpen metal.”

As he sharpened the blade many years later, in anticipation of bestowing the knife to his child, the grown man reflected on his life. Moving the blade back and forth against the stone, he remembered the many times he, too, was sharpened against stone. Rejections from colleges, taking the wrong jobs, unhealthy friendships, being lost in self centered thinking, making mistakes, losing friends, arguments with people he loved, the death of a beloved friend, and countless other struggles (or rubs) . . .  these were the stones against which his life had sharpened. Along the way, there were many times he longed for the security of a sheaf, but he was wise enough to now know, like his knife, his life was a gift to be used. Looking back, he could see how the hardest struggles were the ones that sharpened him most.

Perhaps I should point that out when I give this, he thought, but realized it was one of those lessons learned only though experience.