Stitched in blue and broken for you……

Once upon a time, there was born a little blue-eyed brown-haired girl.
With the most darlin’ smile that you ever did see
She had her momma’s eyes and her very own strong will.
she grew up fast and stole her momma’s heart and her momma’s MAC mascara.

then she moved away and waves of pain crash broken.
Broken. into.

And blue.

So her momma lost her way.
And took her grieving to the rail and to the needles
and prayed to sew healing in every stitch, wishing hands to lead the way, and wine to show Him true.

It would not be rushed.
Healing always takes its own sweet time.
And the soul would hardly seem to mend.
There were so many stitches to go. Endless rows of mended heartache.
And those loops in blue were no accident.

Like reflections in the cup.

Like water washing clean.
They tell a story all their own.

How we labor so diligently for days and weeks and years,

and wonder if it matters at all?

Will it ever be more than a heap of yarn?  Will food and laundry nourish a life?  Can bread be His body broken?

And finally, mercy gives way.

Heartache becomes forgiveness.

Stubborn melts to grace.

Tangles of yarn slowly take form of a sweater.

Years of meals nourish a body like years of love nourish a heart.

Redemption rushes in and finishes the work.

And it did matter.

Every little stitch.   All the countless hours.

Every kindness.    Even every tear.

Hoping, begging, praying that she knows—-

just how very much she matters.

And that she will feel in the blue-—- the warmth of  a mother who loves from the broken place

and the peace of a  Father who forgives.

Happy 18th Birthday sweet Caiti.  I pray you’ll find joy in the best things.   {and fyi: all the best things are broken}

and maybe i’ll have the sweater done by Christmas.

you can’t rush these things, or so I’m told!

from Madeleine L’Engle’s  Walking on Water, reflections of faith and art via heaven and nature sing

It is chastening to realize that those who have no physical  flaw, who move through life in step with their peers, who are bright and beautiful, seldom become artists.  The unending paradox is that we do learn through pain.   The world tempts us to draw back, tempts us to to believe we will not have to take this test.  We are tempted to try to avoid not only our suffering but also that of our fellow human beings, the suffering of the world, which is part of our own suffering. The artist cannot hold back; it is impossible, because writing, or any other discipline of art involves participation in suffering, in the ills and the occasional stabbing joys that come from being part of the human drama.

I am sharing these words with my friend Emily at Chatting at the Sky.  Her blog is beautiful as are her friends, who all gather to tell their gratitude stories on Tuesdays.

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