I look, I squint, I stare
And all I see are strands woven together
Effortlessly but puzzlingly to my eye.
I can see the core of the pattern,
The bright strand which meets
All the others in one, perfectly
I take the masterpiece and
Look closer, deeper.
There I see the small stories unfold;
Stories of joy, surprise, and pain.
I turn the unfinished piece in my hand
Hoping to understand the bigger story
But get caught up in the introduction of
New colors, new patterns, and new strands added
To this road map.
I see the surprise
That rocked my world
And traced its strand back, back, back
Farther than I thought it could go;
And realized this was no surprise
To the Weaver.
I find the strand of my faith
Bright and beautiful in some places,
Hidden and covered in others.
I see the beauty, the light, the spirit it adds
to the art and I know
to cover it is a disservice
to the story being woven.
I see strands I want to rip out,
To break apart because of the
Pain I caused, the pain that
was caused me.
I find sections that were hand mended
By the Weaver and realize
The care with which He puts into
His work despite how unruly
Some pieces were during the weaving.
I sit, amazed at the care, the detail
The Weaver takes with my story. I
see the time it takes to add one piece
And know I could never count
The number of strands He has used
I look away, to the pile of strands
To be added to my woven story.
I realize I don’t know how or when
Or where these stories will take place
Because all I see is an unfinished edge, an
There is comfort in knowing
The pattern is not complete;
There is more coming and the
Weaver knows just when to add those pieces
To my story, woven together with
Perfection, love, and purpose.