Friday, February 20, 2009

The Weaver

I had read a poem at one point that expressed the idea that our lives are like a tapestry. We only see the bottom- which is a big mess. The purpose of particular colors or pattern is unclear. It makes no sense to us. Only after death will we get to see the top- the reason for the colors and the order they were placed.

I had posted this on SHARE and a friend who does cross stitch said this made so much sense to her. I guess when you are working on a cross stitch piece you first do the bright colors and it is difficult to see the pattern- it isn't until you add the black threads to outline that the image emerges. You need that contrast. The black threads have a purpose, in addition to the colorful threads.

I do not do handicrafts. I do not have that talent (or patience!) but I relate to the image of the messy back. Once when I was about 10 in a church youth program they had us do an embroidery piece. I remember the tangled threads on the back (and mine was particularly bad- my friends didn't have nearly the difficulty I did).

Maybe I don't know all the reasons why. I hope someday to get to see the 'top' of the piece. The pattern of my life.

The Weaver
(I found two different names credited to this poem- not sure which is correct)
Benjamine Malachi Franklin/Grant Colfax Tullar

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

Ofttimes He weaveth sorrow,
and I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper,
and I the underside.

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 needful
in the Weaver's skillful hand
As threads of gold and silver
in the pattern He has planned.

4 comments:

Icantletitgo said...

I love poetry. I love that we can use imagery to try to express our feelings. I'm a crafty gal, but I have no patience...therefore I don't do needlepoint any more. But I get this. I have such a hard time seeing through my grief. People tell me what a blessing it is to KNOW why my son died. It is, so many parents never find out why. But I grapple with the reason that God gave my Logan to me in the first place. Logan never had a chance, not from the moment of conception. So I ask God every day, why? Why give him to me if I was to never meet him. It feels like someone giving you a gift and telling you that you'll never be able to open it. I know that I will never understand the purpose Logan's brief existance is meant to have. I too am hoping that one day God will unroll his tapestry for me.
~Heather

Ter said...

wow, I like this poem. I don't even claim to be religious, but I still liked the poem.

Erin said...

We read a variation on this at my daughter's funeral. I am trying to find it online so I can post the link, but I havent so far. It is basically a story instead of a poem about a child who watches as his grandmother weaves from her feet and only sees the mess from the bottom, and ends the same as the poem.

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