It shines, glitters, and when I put my diamond ring in the sunlight, a thousand rays shout out to the sky. In its brilliance, I am lost. I never leave my house without slipping it on my finger, a symbol of so many things. Love. Marriage. Commitment.

But there are moments of doubt that lurk into my conscience. I think about the other secrets that may lurk in the soul of this diamond.  Secrets that I don’t like to think about. Where did my diamond come from? Did a child mine my diamond? Did a child die so that I could wear my diamond? I don’t know. In my hands, I read the nice typed certificate, detailing all the external specifications, color, cut, clarity, and carat, but it doesn’t mention more important words associated with diamonds, blood or conflict. I will never know where my diamond was born and who touched it or how many lives that had to be sacrificed so I could wear it on my finger. I fear that by wearing this diamond, I support unspeakable atrocities that have happened to someone, somewhere in the world.

Even with this knowledge, I lack courage to do the right thing. I know the appropriate thing would be to stop wearing my diamond ring, sell it, and take the proceeds and offer a donation to some charitable cause. Often I have thought about it, but I won’t take that step. I can’t part it with it. It is more than object to me, it is the day my husband dropped down on on one knee and proposed to me. I am forever attached to it because of those feelings of goodness. And it makes me more culpable, because I’ve considered the gravity of what it means to covet something that may have come from a place of hurt and, yes, conflict.

The moral compass whispers what is right, but the loudness of my voice pushes back. I still have my ring on, thinking about the courage it probably took for a child to mine it. And examine my own lack of bravery for not slipping it off.

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