 A mixed bag gathered, each with a stash of patterns from things worn and worn out, old blankets, the newest quarters, and frayed leftovers from projects of last season. Task and reason places each woman in position. “Come sit by me” is next to “I don’t know what to do.” Rigidity and age has found its place touching shoulders with fragility and youth. They piece stories of torn and mended parts. Questions are asked, and they are each tasked with threading difficult needles, restitching sections, snipping loose threads and taking correction in order to create blocks that turn into beautiful works of art… women. Knowledge offered in the rhythmic push and pull of needles and threads. The burden and beauty of womanhood is not sewn in isolation where pride can hide, but patterned around a table of give and take with someone of a different pattern on either side.
both making home. Safe. Secure. He carries scars from protecting. She bears the marks of nesting. Oh the stories they could tell from the history they’ve made. So when temps drop overnight or after a fight, when only the sound of ice breaking and cracking in their hearts can be heard, they remain. Proximity warms what is frozen. Nearness binds what is broken.
Quiet. Quiet until we can hum what is true. I do and I do. For in what other way are you to see the brilliance of your other half if there were no contrast? Airing differences until they land softly below to be covered in pure white snow.
“We stood together in silence, I with my thoughts and she with hers. She turned and looked straight at me for a moment, but said nothing. All was white and still."
 Deserts are, by definition, dry, barren places. But I have a heightened sense of awe for these desolate places that provide never-ending surface area for the sun to burn and little obstruction for mile-upon-mile viewing. I have learned to see color and provision beyond my own doing. Sage, more lovely, more hardy than any handful of roses. Cactus, that stand with tried resilience and boast more greens than this girl can handle. Rust reds below my boots that make a sound with each step, promising me that its grip is sure; it won’t let me slip. I am on holy ground in this barren place, because it is where I discover God’s most creative gifts and sustaining presence, and a lesson in everything I once saw as pain. A reminder.
The Feast of Booths is a Jewish pilgrimage festival celebrated each year in the Fall. It’s one of the most joyous, beautiful gatherings during harvest that traditionally requires everyone to make tents (booths) and live in for the duration of the feast (8 days). It commemorates a time when, over 3400 years ago, Israel wandered in the wilderness, living in temporary shelters, and surviving solely at the mercy and provision of God. Manna, water, sandals and clothes for 40 years, none of which could have been packed in or sustained themselves. Every year, they remember the One who truly blooms color in the desert, provides the rain and harvest, fights their enemies and provides protection in their exposed state. The wilderness takes our breath, our strength, and even our sense of direction and places it out of reach, like a mirage. But the Artist of the desert has a jaw-dropping palette of sustaining hope that He still brings. And this we trust. By His goodness, the place of mourning is made into a place of springs. Suffering does not have the last word. God does. And one day, a Promised Land. "Passing through the Valley of Weeping (Baca), they make it a place of springs; the early Autumn rain also covers it with blessings. They go from strength to strength, until each appears before God in Zion.” (Psalm 84:6-7)  Every day, 1440 minutes of humming. Going and coming, crossing paths. Dodging them too. Too much to do to just mingle. A home to defend, finding foe, finding friend, finding nectar that may be dry at day’s end. Dangers and heat beat on this thin heart where love once pumped wildly, then mildly, then it was taught to resent. I’m spent. Flying here and there until the wings are a blur, speech is a slur. But if I stop, I just might fall. A chirp on the way down, losing my self-made crown until one responds to the sound and stirs me up. Rest here and watch. Be taught, again. Drink it in, that which is sweet and satisfies. Then fly my friend. Stir up another falling down, while it is still called “Today.” Day to day, your heart will fail in the midst of the grind, but may you find yourself caught up in the tail wind of another. A sister, a brother who sees your heart twisting. And stop resisting their rescue. Then look up at a few in view who are falling too and lift them — encourage, comfort, teach — until they are strong enough to reach the blooms, staying fixed in the air, humming. Don’t lose heart, a new day is coming.
“Exhort one another every day, as long as it is called “today.” Hebrews 3:13 “Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful. And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together but encouraging one another and all the more as you see the Day drawing near.” Hebrews 10:23-25
I was not there when these foundations were laid, or the rock beds were made. I did not determine where to chisel into layers of color or spread clouds to hover casting shadows that play on waters below. They flow within bounds set, braiding wet and dry, reflecting sun and sky, revealing both the proud and shy of creation. I am so small, and tremble at the pending chaos of it all, when actually what silences me is the commanding order. “Waters, come here and no further.” Elements and matter obey a Master who weaves— what cannot be held in my hands — like strands just by His word. And I’m just the observer, a mere collector of works I cannot afford, but can touch and climb and wade through and discover. Things too wonderful for me.
Inspired by the braided, glacial Toklat River in Denali National Park, Alaska. Compelled by Job 38. |
