Wounded, We All Need Stitching

Sharing the joys, contentment, and lessons of everyday life with:

~~~~~

{Pretty}

I brush a hand over the sewing table, to whisk away the glinting sparkles from half-doilies that shine...with semi-futility.  I harbor a hope that if Kyri finds a pink or blue glint of kippah sparkle that I missed, on her pristine white chapel veil, she'll simply pick it off with a smile on her lips and grace in her heart. These sparkles are stubborn; they want the whole church to shine.

Soft white stretch lace is arranged gently on the table and spread flat.  Ornate venise lace motifs require hand tacking, one by one.  I'll be here awhile.

I don't mind.  There is healing to do.



Fine white thread through the eye of a needle....Narrow is the way, and I think of the camel...

"Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle..."

{Happy}

The stitching begins.  My eyes are getting middle aged.  I never anticipated bifocals, but here they are.  Funny that your eyes need lenses to see clearly as you age...yet, your spirit doesn't really see very clearly before then, does it?

One silky motif at a time, carefully arranged, secured in place.  Things set right.

I think of things off kilter, and broken relationships, and seeing one that you love in a theater and knowing that the bridge is burned, and not knowing entirely where the fault lies.  Of words poorly chosen, and misunderstood.  We spread fault around like popcorn, really, and it is hard to put away caring for one that has been placed on your heart.

The sewing is healing; every veil a prayer.  The stitches come smoothly and they glide hurt away.  Silky white venise threads catch light.  So beautiful.  Pure, like hope.

{Real}

I think of a California veil headed for sometimes Russian Orthodox services in Australia, and realization falls familiar of how we are all connected across miles, by silky threads.  How diaphanous Summer-light lace can sparkle Winter white, depending on the hemisphere.

...Of memories of mothers' confirmation veils, how love stretches long across decades of time,...and of how exquisite lace captures, cradles, and preserves love in its delicate weave.

...Of fragile lace sewn on the machine of a grandmother long gone, and then passed gently, quietly, from one Christian woman's hands to those of another, across a huge expanse of miles.  And how Christ runs through all of us, no matter the distance, and we are his Body, one and whole.

How sometimes the span is miles, and sometimes it is hurt and misunderstanding and brokenness.

So many veils, gentle on the hair of so many praying women, with hurts to heal, and healing to give.

How He wraps us in his arms and holds us together, even when bridges are burned and tiny living threads are broken.

{Healed and Happy}

I think of veils sewn and of praying women, and of hurt.  How we all carry hurt and just want one another to heal it, and sometimes get mad when we don't do the healing.

And then familiar prayers fall soft and quiet, for ones who don't know they are being prayed for, over years, across arches of ash.  Hoping they will find love and joy and peace.  Praying there will be little ones and love grown old and wrinkled.  Prayers don't need feet on wood slats to travel over gulfs of pain.

The stitches keep coming.  One by one.  Tying hearts together across miles and gulfs and pride.

I steam-press a delicate veil on its way to Australia, under a cotton tea towel sent from Britain,...Three women touch fingertips across continents, in Christ.

Love pours over lace and holds fast.  Grace falls over each of us, gently, and settles soft...enfolding us in the love of Our Lord...edged in venise hope.

...touched by Christ our Healer.

Pax Christi, Dear Ones,
~Michelle

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