A friend lent me a book - The Glass Castle. It's a memoir of the author's horrible, messy childhood. i like reading someones *story* - it gives me more perspective - & tendrils of understanding.
It struck me in reading her account - how we're all familiar with the idea that children are so resilient...
But, we all carry our childhoods into adulthood.
Some of us have our spools all neatly wound with even thread...
Some of us have become a tangled mess - who can only dream of being freed from nasty snarled knots...
i was talking to a foster mama this week -
"There's a reason those children are taken away..." she said.
& after hearing the stories of the unravelled threads of childhoods - my heart burned with frustration & compassion for the tiny helpless ones, poisoned in their mama's womb... forever bearing the consequences of their parent's addiction. & when i asked her - a woman i had never met before - "Do you think you can make a difference?" i wanted her to shout, "YES! Our adopted sons are making leaps and bounds! The fetal alcohol syndrome doesn't seem to affect them at all, because we loved them so much."
i wanted to know that those tangled threads could be salvaged, not snipped off like we so often do with a knotted mess, and tossed aside.
She paused for longer than i wanted her to -
& then she responded, "i guess, in the sense that they won't get hurt anymore..."
& as i exhaled... i felt a dissatisfied twisting in my chest.
Oh, but the Master Weaver sees those knotted bits of discarded thread...
and the weary load that those who choose to step into the fray and *love those wounded children* bear...
Oh, God - soften our hearts towards the very least of these.
Give strength to the beacons of love and light -
Give comfort to the motherless -
Give compassion to us all.
& gently, silently... He takes those threads of broken innocence - and weaves them in their place... & gives us the faith to believe that one day, we'll see more than just the underside of His masterpiece...
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,
And I the under side.
Not til 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 needful
In the Weaver's skillful hand,
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.
He knows, He loves, He cares,
Nothing this truth can dim.
He gives His very best to those
Who leave the choice with Him.