The First Elder I Ever Knew

Some Gifts Cannot Be Bought

There are moments in our lives that seem almost ordinary while they are happening, yet somehow stay with us forever.

A conversation.

A kindness.

A simple gesture that quietly changes the way we see the world.

For me, one of those moments happened beside the ocean when I was nineteen years old.

At the time, I had the privilege of hosting a World Indigenous Peace Conference that brought together Elders, tribal leaders and representatives from many different cultures, faiths and communities from around the world.

Looking back now, I realise just how extraordinary that gathering really was.

These were people who carried generations of stories, traditions and lived experience. They came from different countries, spoke different languages and held different beliefs, yet there was something they all seemed to share.

Humility.

They listened as much as they spoke.

They respected one another's perspectives.

They were deeply grounded in their own traditions, yet remained genuinely curious about everyone else's.

What struck me most was that none of them behaved as though they had finished learning.

I found that quietly remarkable.

At nineteen, I was only just beginning to discover how little I knew.

I had recently left school and was standing in that strange space between adolescence and adulthood.

Like most teenagers, I couldn't wait for the freedom that adulthood promised.

Looking back now, I smile at that younger version of myself.

Adulting, it turns out, is wonderfully overrated.

The familiar rhythm of school had disappeared almost overnight, replaced by uncertainty, responsibility and the quiet question so many young adults carry:

"Where exactly do I fit in this world?"

As the conference drew to a close, I wandered down to the shoreline alone.

The waves rolled in with their familiar rhythm, completely unaware that my little corner of the world felt as though everything was changing.

The conference was ending.

The remarkable friendships I had formed would soon be scattered across the globe.

One chapter of my life had already closed.

Another was quietly waiting to begin.

As I sat watching the ocean, I found myself thinking about my grandfather.

He had passed away several years earlier, but that afternoon he felt strangely close.

As a little girl, he had been the first Elder I ever knew.

Not because he claimed to have all the answers.

But because he had lived enough life to understand that wisdom isn't the same as certainty.

He was a strong military man, respected by those around him, and not someone many people would have described as openly affectionate.

Yet somehow, with me, things were different.

We laughed together.

We teased each other.

We got into harmless mischief.

And he had a nickname that belonged only to us.

He called me his Pixie.

Even now, after all these years, there are moments when I wish I could hear him say it just one more time.

Surrounded by Elders and tribal leaders from around the world, I couldn't help thinking how naturally he would have belonged among them.

Not because of his profession.

Not because of his age.

But because he understood something that all truly wise people seem to understand.

Life never stops teaching us.

Perhaps that was why I missed him so much that afternoon.

I wasn't simply missing my grandfather.

I was missing the quiet reassurance that comes from someone whose experience helps make the world feel just a little less overwhelming.

After a while, one of the American Indian Elders quietly walked over and sat beside me.

We didn't speak straight away.

We simply watched the ocean together.

There was something comforting about that.

No need to fill the silence.

No need to explain why I was there.

After a few minutes, he reached into his pocket and gently placed several small black stones into my hand.

"They're called Apache Tears," he said.

He shared with me a tradition that had been meaningful in his own life. He explained that these little stones were often carried during times of grief—not because they removed sadness, but because they reminded us that grief isn't meant to remain trapped inside us forever.

"It begins in your heart," he said softly.

"But one day it finds its way back to the Great Spirit."

Then he smiled.

"When one door closes, another is waiting to be opened."

Those words have travelled with me for decades.

Not because they promised that loss would disappear.

Not because they suggested healing follows a timetable.

But because they reminded me that life is always moving.

We never stop loving the people we've lost.

We simply learn to carry that love differently.

Before we returned to the conference, he shared one final thought.

"Sometimes," he said, "Apache Tears crack."

"Sometimes they shatter."

"Some people believe that, after carrying so much grief, the stone simply cannot hold any more."

Whether you understand that as a tradition, a symbolic story or simply a beautiful metaphor, I have always found the image deeply comforting.

Perhaps we aren't meant to carry every sorrow forever.

Perhaps healing isn't about forgetting.

Perhaps it is simply about allowing our hearts to keep moving.

Years later, I learnt more about Apache Tears from a geological perspective.

They are a naturally occurring variety of obsidian—a volcanic glass formed when molten lava cools so rapidly that crystals never have time to grow.

Born from fire.

Shaped by sudden change.

Created through transformation.

I love knowing the science.

For me, understanding how something forms never diminishes its beauty.

It deepens it.

Yet whenever I hold one of those little black stones, geology is only part of the story.

I remember sitting beside the ocean.

I remember a young woman who wasn't nearly as confident as she tried to appear.

I remember an Elder who noticed without being asked.

And I remember discovering that one of the greatest gifts we can ever offer another person is simply to see them.

That afternoon, I wasn't really given Apache Tears.

I was given compassion.

Looking back now, I realise the stones were never the true gift.

The gift was knowing that someone had noticed.

Sometimes the most precious treasures we collect aren't valuable because of what they are.

They're valuable because of the people who place them into our hands, the kindness behind the gesture and the stories that become forever entwined with them.

I still have those Apache Tears today.

Every now and then, when life reminds me that every ending carries a little grief, I hold one for a while.

I think about my grandfather.

I think about the Elder beside the ocean.

I think about the remarkable people we meet who quietly become part of our story without ever realising it.

And I'm reminded that while some gifts can be wrapped in beautiful paper...

the ones that stay with us forever usually cannot.

A Moment to Reflect

As I look back now, I realise this story was never really about Apache Tears.

It was about the people who quietly shape our lives.

The ones who offer wisdom without expecting recognition.

The ones who notice when we're struggling, often before we've found the words ourselves.

The ones who help us keep moving when life feels uncertain.

Who was the first Elder in your life?

Not necessarily the oldest person you knew.

But the first person whose kindness, experience or quiet wisdom helped shape the person you are today.

Perhaps it was a grandparent.

A teacher.

A neighbour.

A coach.

A friend.

Or perhaps someone who crossed your path only briefly, yet left an imprint that has never faded.

If someone comes to mind, perhaps today is a good day to honour them.

If they're still here, maybe give them a call.

Tell them what they have meant to you.

If they're no longer with you, spend a few quiet moments remembering the lessons they left behind.

Because wisdom has a remarkable way of continuing long after the conversation has ended.

And perhaps, without ever realising it, each of us has the opportunity to become an Elder in someone else's story.