Unraveled

Do you have that favorite something that you collect? I rifle through the back rooms of resale and antique shops for needlepoint pillows. Don't ask me why I'm drawn to rugs and pictures and pillows created stitch by time-consuming stitch.

I don't know. I've collected many beautiful treasures over the years. I trade them out with the seasons around my house. I have these works of art with angels, bunnies, collies and flowers on them. 

Sometimes I sit and ponder all of the time that went into them. I wonder what the woman's life was like as she sat and created the beauty I now enjoy. 

I know the time it took. I used to spend hours making birth announcements or anniversary stitchings to give away. I don't seem to find the time anymore. 

Whenever I gave stitched items away I hoped nobody would look at the backside. Have you even looked at the back of a needlepoint canvas? 

It's hard to believe that mess can be so beautiful on the front. My stitchery usually had bumpy knots, unraveling frayed ends and single threads reaching inches across the backside to make just those last few stitches in the same color. I wanted the front to look just right and "together". 

Looks kinda like my life feels sometimes—unraveled. 

I dash about driving my kids, throwing dinner on the table, rewashing the mildewed laundry that I forgot in the washer. Will that plant I neglected revive when I remember to water it?

I sit in my chair, the favorite one. I grab up my One Year Bible that I'm having so much fun reading and marking—only it is taking a year, seven months and counting. The Word washes over me and I am still.  
My life seems unraveled at times but as I sit silently in His presence I know His heart toward me. I am fully accepted by Him when I come and offer up my mess. I don't have to pretend and hope He doesn't look at the underside with all of the frazzled ends. 

Thank you, Father, that I don't have to pretend or hide from You. Nothing can separate me from your love...not messiness, not burned meals, not mildewed laundry, extra pounds or wilted plants. I love you, Lord. 





THE WEAVER

My life is but a weaving between my Lord and me,
I cannot choose the colors He worketh steadily.

Oft times He weaveth sorrow, and I in foolish pride
forget He sees the upper but I the under side.

Not till the loom is silent and the shuttles cease to fly,
shall God unroll the canvas and explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needed in the Weaver's skillful hand,
as threads of gold and silver in the pattern life has planned.

Benjamin Malachi Franklin (1882-1965)