The Unraveling
It had taken years to do that rug. The pattern was intricate and
unlike anything, Camille had every crocheted. No one thought it would
ever be finished. For one, it ate up thread like it devoured time and
still managed to remain much smaller than expected. Every few weeks
saw Camille trekking to the store to restock her basket. She did not
want to even think about how much money she had spent on what had fast
morphed into a lifelong project. If there was any consolation, the rug
became less like a craft and more like a work of art. Its status
continued to rise and almost every artsy-craftsy person in Silver
Springs boasted of having seen it in person, at least once. It was
indeed the talk of the community, the one piece of work causing so
many to strive harder to excel at their creative efforts.
Chances are, the rug would have been finished and much bigger than the
final product eventually turned out to be, except, Camille became an
expert. That’s right, an expert. Apparently, since she was peerless in
her artistry with a pattern, thread, and a crochet needle, the town of
Silver Springs decided she must be good at everything else. And so, it
went from crochet to knitting and from knitting to domestic affairs.
Camille had become almost indispensable. Finally, she called a halt
buckled down to complete her project while everyone waited with bated
breath for the final unveiling.
I won’t mention how many more years it took (no one would believe me
anyway) before the rug was completed. But finished it was and a true
marvel to behold! The day is was displayed at the Silver Springs Craft
fair, it created a traffic jam as everyone stopped to gawk and ooh and
aah. Words like “masterpiece” and “incredible” were the order of the
day. But as with everything else, the showing was finally over and a
glowing Camille folded her precious rug and made her way home. Of
course, such a treasure was destined for greatness, not the floor but
a place of honor on the wall visible as one first entered the home.
When it was being mounted, one single thread slipped its perfect loop.
No bother. Camille just tucked it underneath, no need to go through
the hassle of getting the crochet needle and tying it off. After all,
it was not as if the rug would be handled. No harm could come to it as
it hung on the wall. Was it the wind or the few times a year the rug
was moved for dusting? Who knows? Whatever the reason, that thread
skipped loops and worked its way down a good two inches. Proud of its
freedom, it dangled, out of mischief, for now, resting on the wall.
This happy state of affairs lasted for many years but as you might
guess, it was not destined to last forever.
One fateful day a man came in wearing a shaggy, itchy jacket. It was
not much to look at but because it kept him warm, he was even willing
to overlook the jacket’s habit of snagging or getting caught on almost
everything it touched. On his way out he passed so close to the rug.
In fact, he brushed right up on the tardy two or four inches dangling
free of its loops. The shaggy jacket grabbed and held fast even as the
man-made his way out the door. Jacket and thread held fast as the man
got into his beaten-up work truck and chugged and sputtered all the
way down the empty street. Block after very long block. Finally, the
truck turned a corner and the thread snapped. The jacket still clung
contentedly to the length it had, unaware of the damage it had
created.
At home, on the floor, against the wall where splendor once reigned,
lay a heap of crinkled thread. Above the crinkled threads, a brilliant
border bravely spilled colors ⸻ all that remained of the
masterpiece, the rug that once graced the wall. Feather duster in
hand, Camille hummed as she made her way into the foyer. Just a few
more minutes and she could move on to more enjoyable chores. She
stopped aghast as her eyes fell on the crinkled mass on the floor.
With a cry, she knelt as her tears fell thick and fast. She touched
the threads asking, “Why, why, how could this have happened?” She
turned around and traced the thread, the tell-tale line of disaster
leading outside. In disbelief, she followed as it kept a straight line
as if on a mission, block after block before becoming snarled in the
mire on the ground. Shattered, Camille retraced her steps home praying
this was another of her too vivid dreams and all would be well when
she opened the door. She opened the door and hope deflated and fell on
top of the crinkled threads. Her treasure, her masterpiece was lost
forever. Camille told one person, and that person told another two or
three until pretty soon all of Silver Springs knew of the unraveling.
They whispered and muttered and hugged Camille. They wondered how.
They wondered why until Camille told them it started with one loose
thread.
Joshua was a master weaver. He had a machine and had been producing
flawless creations for years. Camille knew about him and longed to
see if he could help. But then she thought of all the hours she had
labored, how good it felt to have this masterpiece created by her own
hands. If she went to Joshua and even if he restored the pattern
exactly as it was before it would not be the same. Now she would have
nothing to feel special about, the rug would no longer reflect her.
She looked at the mound of crinkled threads as tears fell endlessly.
Hours, days, months, and finally years slipped by. By now the threads
were even more snarled, stuffed together with the breathtaking border
in a bag at the back of a closet, almost forgotten.
Another cleaning day came and Camille stumbled onto the bag in the
closet. Immediately the pain and loss crept into her spirit. They did
not come alone. With them came questions, and conflict, and the
struggle of whether to take the shambles of the once beautiful rug to
Joshua. She absently wiped the tears she had not realized were on her
cheeks and yanked the bag free. Not bothering to change she headed for
the door and head down as if afraid someone would stop her if they
knew where she was headed. Camille headed for Joshua’s shop.
He greeted her with such joy. Bit by bit she told him of the years of
labor and he knew all about the town’s celebration when the rug was
completed. He listened and comforted and never asked why she had not
come to him before. He shook out the gnarled and tangled threads,
lovingly straightened the brave border and walked toward his loom.
Joshua hummed a tune and his eyes sparkled with assurance as if he
knew exactly what he would do. He gently stretched what seemed like
an impossible tangle on the loom and patiently coaxed the fragile
threads into the position he desired. Then he added threads ⸻ some
similar and others different from the original colors. His gentle
hands trimmed and snipped as he hummed and several hours later, he
started to weave.
The shuttle clicked and clacked as it moved across the loom and the
workshop seemed to take on new energy as the first clue of the pattern
emerged. On and on the weaving continued and Joshua sang. The rug
captured his peace, the shape of the notes of his song, and the color
of the harmony. The pattern became far more intricate, the colors more
vivid, and the stitches embraced the strength of eternity. Finally, it
was finished and it was time to call Camille. She came hesitantly,
full of a thousand questions. Would it be worth it? What if she did
not like the pattern? And what about the cost?
Camille stared in awe unable to speak as she gazed at the rug. There
was her pattern as plain as ever but was it really? The master weaver
seemed to have reached beyond her efforts to a level of perfection she
was not able to achieve even with the years of diligent labor. Yes,
the rug was hers but as superior as the real is to the shadow. She had
given Joshua a snarled, tangled, remnant of what she treasured as
beautiful. And he in its place, he gave her an object of unsurpassed
beauty all for the cost of telling others about what the weaver could
do.
Our lives are as snarled and tangled as the rug as it lost its the
place of honor to be stuffed in a bag at the back of the closet. But
we are not without hope because there is Jesus, and he not only
restores but makes of us a masterpiece much more beautiful than we
could have done on our own. There is no cost because the cross covers
it all. We need only bring the mess to him and ask him to save us and
make us into the person he wants us to be. He will rejoice over us
with singing (Zephaniah 3:17).
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Lauren E. Myers is the author of several books aimed at helping
others to know Jesus in a personal way and to grow in him. She writes
devotionals and leadership material and incorporates her over 25 years
of nursing in promoting the practice of holistic health and wellness.
A former pastor with her husband J. Edsil Myers, Lauren speaks at
conferences, teaches workshops, and does short term mission trips to
various places including Mexico, India, the Philippines, and Africa.
She may be contacted by email at laurenmyers339@gmail.com
© January 2020
It had taken years to do that rug. The pattern was intricate and
unlike anything, Camille had every crocheted. No one thought it would
ever be finished. For one, it ate up thread like it devoured time and
still managed to remain much smaller than expected. Every few weeks
saw Camille trekking to the store to restock her basket. She did not
want to even think about how much money she had spent on what had fast
morphed into a lifelong project. If there was any consolation, the rug
became less like a craft and more like a work of art. Its status
continued to rise and almost every artsy-craftsy person in Silver
Springs boasted of having seen it in person, at least once. It was
indeed the talk of the community, the one piece of work causing so
many to strive harder to excel at their creative efforts.
Chances are, the rug would have been finished and much bigger than the
final product eventually turned out to be, except, Camille became an
expert. That’s right, an expert. Apparently, since she was peerless in
her artistry with a pattern, thread, and a crochet needle, the town of
Silver Springs decided she must be good at everything else. And so, it
went from crochet to knitting and from knitting to domestic affairs.
Camille had become almost indispensable. Finally, she called a halt
buckled down to complete her project while everyone waited with bated
breath for the final unveiling.
I won’t mention how many more years it took (no one would believe me
anyway) before the rug was completed. But finished it was and a true
marvel to behold! The day is was displayed at the Silver Springs Craft
fair, it created a traffic jam as everyone stopped to gawk and ooh and
aah. Words like “masterpiece” and “incredible” were the order of the
day. But as with everything else, the showing was finally over and a
glowing Camille folded her precious rug and made her way home. Of
course, such a treasure was destined for greatness, not the floor but
a place of honor on the wall visible as one first entered the home.
When it was being mounted, one single thread slipped its perfect loop.
No bother. Camille just tucked it underneath, no need to go through
the hassle of getting the crochet needle and tying it off. After all,
it was not as if the rug would be handled. No harm could come to it as
it hung on the wall. Was it the wind or the few times a year the rug
was moved for dusting? Who knows? Whatever the reason, that thread
skipped loops and worked its way down a good two inches. Proud of its
freedom, it dangled, out of mischief, for now, resting on the wall.
This happy state of affairs lasted for many years but as you might
guess, it was not destined to last forever.
One fateful day a man came in wearing a shaggy, itchy jacket. It was
not much to look at but because it kept him warm, he was even willing
to overlook the jacket’s habit of snagging or getting caught on almost
everything it touched. On his way out he passed so close to the rug.
In fact, he brushed right up on the tardy two or four inches dangling
free of its loops. The shaggy jacket grabbed and held fast even as the
man-made his way out the door. Jacket and thread held fast as the man
got into his beaten-up work truck and chugged and sputtered all the
way down the empty street. Block after very long block. Finally, the
truck turned a corner and the thread snapped. The jacket still clung
contentedly to the length it had, unaware of the damage it had
created.
At home, on the floor, against the wall where splendor once reigned,
lay a heap of crinkled thread. Above the crinkled threads, a brilliant
border bravely spilled colors ⸻ all that remained of the
masterpiece, the rug that once graced the wall. Feather duster in
hand, Camille hummed as she made her way into the foyer. Just a few
more minutes and she could move on to more enjoyable chores. She
stopped aghast as her eyes fell on the crinkled mass on the floor.
With a cry, she knelt as her tears fell thick and fast. She touched
the threads asking, “Why, why, how could this have happened?” She
turned around and traced the thread, the tell-tale line of disaster
leading outside. In disbelief, she followed as it kept a straight line
as if on a mission, block after block before becoming snarled in the
mire on the ground. Shattered, Camille retraced her steps home praying
this was another of her too vivid dreams and all would be well when
she opened the door. She opened the door and hope deflated and fell on
top of the crinkled threads. Her treasure, her masterpiece was lost
forever. Camille told one person, and that person told another two or
three until pretty soon all of Silver Springs knew of the unraveling.
They whispered and muttered and hugged Camille. They wondered how.
They wondered why until Camille told them it started with one loose
thread.
Joshua was a master weaver. He had a machine and had been producing
flawless creations for years. Camille knew about him and longed to
see if he could help. But then she thought of all the hours she had
labored, how good it felt to have this masterpiece created by her own
hands. If she went to Joshua and even if he restored the pattern
exactly as it was before it would not be the same. Now she would have
nothing to feel special about, the rug would no longer reflect her.
She looked at the mound of crinkled threads as tears fell endlessly.
Hours, days, months, and finally years slipped by. By now the threads
were even more snarled, stuffed together with the breathtaking border
in a bag at the back of a closet, almost forgotten.
Another cleaning day came and Camille stumbled onto the bag in the
closet. Immediately the pain and loss crept into her spirit. They did
not come alone. With them came questions, and conflict, and the
struggle of whether to take the shambles of the once beautiful rug to
Joshua. She absently wiped the tears she had not realized were on her
cheeks and yanked the bag free. Not bothering to change she headed for
the door and head down as if afraid someone would stop her if they
knew where she was headed. Camille headed for Joshua’s shop.
He greeted her with such joy. Bit by bit she told him of the years of
labor and he knew all about the town’s celebration when the rug was
completed. He listened and comforted and never asked why she had not
come to him before. He shook out the gnarled and tangled threads,
lovingly straightened the brave border and walked toward his loom.
Joshua hummed a tune and his eyes sparkled with assurance as if he
knew exactly what he would do. He gently stretched what seemed like
an impossible tangle on the loom and patiently coaxed the fragile
threads into the position he desired. Then he added threads ⸻ some
similar and others different from the original colors. His gentle
hands trimmed and snipped as he hummed and several hours later, he
started to weave.
The shuttle clicked and clacked as it moved across the loom and the
workshop seemed to take on new energy as the first clue of the pattern
emerged. On and on the weaving continued and Joshua sang. The rug
captured his peace, the shape of the notes of his song, and the color
of the harmony. The pattern became far more intricate, the colors more
vivid, and the stitches embraced the strength of eternity. Finally, it
was finished and it was time to call Camille. She came hesitantly,
full of a thousand questions. Would it be worth it? What if she did
not like the pattern? And what about the cost?
Camille stared in awe unable to speak as she gazed at the rug. There
was her pattern as plain as ever but was it really? The master weaver
seemed to have reached beyond her efforts to a level of perfection she
was not able to achieve even with the years of diligent labor. Yes,
the rug was hers but as superior as the real is to the shadow. She had
given Joshua a snarled, tangled, remnant of what she treasured as
beautiful. And he in its place, he gave her an object of unsurpassed
beauty all for the cost of telling others about what the weaver could
do.
Our lives are as snarled and tangled as the rug as it lost its the
place of honor to be stuffed in a bag at the back of the closet. But
we are not without hope because there is Jesus, and he not only
restores but makes of us a masterpiece much more beautiful than we
could have done on our own. There is no cost because the cross covers
it all. We need only bring the mess to him and ask him to save us and
make us into the person he wants us to be. He will rejoice over us
with singing (Zephaniah 3:17).
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Lauren E. Myers is the author of several books aimed at helping
others to know Jesus in a personal way and to grow in him. She writes
devotionals and leadership material and incorporates her over 25 years
of nursing in promoting the practice of holistic health and wellness.
A former pastor with her husband J. Edsil Myers, Lauren speaks at
conferences, teaches workshops, and does short term mission trips to
various places including Mexico, India, the Philippines, and Africa.
She may be contacted by email at laurenmyers339@gmail.com
© January 2020
