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Whenever the fabric of life is torn
—as it often is—
A thousand hands fly to its repair
—though the hands be stained with tears.
Steadily, patiently, a little at a time,
the thread is drawn from here to there
and from there to there.
A stitch is taken,
and the torn edges are drawn gently together.
By itself, each thread is fragile,
but our hands are patient.
Make a stitch if you can.
Don't worry that it seems fragile.
They all are,
and yours may be the only one missing.
You are not responsible for weaving the whole tapestry,
but you are responsible for adding your thread.
In the end the seam will be strong,
held by many stitches,
each of which cannot bear the strain by itself.
Each mend adds to the color, the design, the richness.
Our hands have worked patiently for many years.
The fabric is quite strong,
and of surpassing beauty.
Sometimes...
Sometimes it seems …
there is no winning for losing.
We try and we try again,
and the walls crumble.
We pretend to be invincible,
but we are not.
Cut us, and we bleed.
A deer lies by the side of the road, dead.
Fur is pushed back off dark pink body muscle.
Dark blood stains the pavement.
Her guts peek out for all who drive past to see.
Her innermost privacy is violated.
Life is sticky liquids,
oftentimes drying in the hot afternoon sun.
How could we ever prevail?
And yet...
And yet...
We do.
I will start again
- just don't ask me now.
Who will heal us?
You are wounded too,
yet you bind my wound.
What am I to do now but tend those
who are even more broken than I?
Our strength is not that we are invulnerable,
but that we heal.
We bear scars.
But a scar is the badge of a wound that has healed.
I heave myself to my knee,
to my feet.
I shoulder the pack,
wipe the tear from my eye,
and step off.
What else is there to do?
Healing is quiet work
—and common.
Imperceptibly,
Tears are dried.
A job is found.
Bills are paid.
Dinner is set out.
Presents are exchanged.
Friends smile.
Ice melts.
Gentle summer rain falls.
Clouds part.
Green vines grow over the graves.
Children laugh and grow.
Words of consolation are spoken
—and heard.
Oh Life!
We languish and expire
cold, alone and hungry in the dark.
We are broken on a rock.
We die and bleach in the blazing sun.
We think we are fragile,
but we are not.
In the face of darkness
and torn things,
we often despair.
But it is only for a time.
Every day brings new threats.
Yet every day we are more.
Every day is another day of life.
Another shining gift.
If a branch is cut off, new shoots start to grow.
If one dies, two live.
The desert shower moistens the dust and we sprout.
The pale sun warms the cold rocks and we grow.
The fragile roots press patiently at the rock
and split it.
The tree flourishes.
Strawberry fields bloom in the city
—forever.
Eventually,
imperceptibly,
we start again.
We mend.
We grow.
We thrive!
“I know nothing stays the same,
but if you're willing to play the game,
It will be coming around again.”*
It is not needed that Life eliminate Death.
Life will overwhelm Death.
Honor the memory of the dead deer.
Whenever the fabric of life is torn
—as it often is—
A thousand hands fly to its repair
—though the hands be stained with tears.
Steadily, patiently, a little at a time,
the thread is drawn from here to there
and from there to there.
A stitch is taken,
and the torn edges are drawn gently together.
