THE DARK THREADS ...
My mother was a weaver. When I found this little poem among her things I was struck by what a poignant description of life it is. We are all on a journey that sometimes feels like a roller-coaster. The trick is to hold on and finish the ride.
My life is but a weaving,
between my Lord and me,
I cannot choose the colors,
he weaveth steadily.
Oft' times He weaveth sorrow,
And I in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper
And I the underside.
The dark threads are as needful,
In the weaver's skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver,
In the pattern he has planned.
Not 'til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas,
And explain the reason why.
(anonymous)
