Stitches, millions of them, surround us every day. I treasure the stitches on the quilt made for us when we married. Knitted stitches of my kids’ tiny sweaters from Oma repose in the dark on a top shelf at the back of my closet. Industrial nylon stitches keep our britches covered. Stitches can even sow skin back in place; as the nine purplish ‘puntos’ did, leaving a proud scar on my daughter’s foot.
Imagine people are like billions of stitches holding the world together, holding time together by the seams. We poke and pull, loop and turn, all patching our lives overlapping and mismatched. Like a woman holding a hoop away from her face to look with squinting eyes at the work of her hands, every so often we see a glimpse of the whole.
A tiny dot of color, a life so important and full, pulled up through the cloth and laid back down again in the earth which spun it. The stitches line together making shapes of utilitarian nature and forms of beauty.
So when the tug turns into fray, and the day turns into sighs, I think of stitches. Dozens of little stitches have poked their way into our lives and we criss-crossed like cross stitch. Some stayed. Others have been taken to new places by the great needle of circumstance.
I look at the picture of some of the faces of kids who lived in The House of Dreams at one time. A few of them are shown wearing the clothes my own children handed down to them. Shared stitches. Shared lives. Like the delicacy of crocheted lace, human fragility invites a gentle touch and a reverence for the One who’s handiwork is seen in the miracle of life.
Great Weaver of the tapestry of grace
Weave us and make something beautiful
My strand of faith
your divine lifeline