Back In The Saddle Again.

The sound of loom clanking as one shaft opens and one closes is music to my ears.  The rhythmic back and forth of the shuttle flying left to right calms my fears.  Running my hands over newly woven cloth brings a sigh of satisfaction.  Mixing and blending colors paints rainbows in my mind and colors my life.  I am a weaver.

I haven’t been able to weave for the past few months.  Packing up, moving across country, unpacking, and changes in our entire life made it near impossible to get to the loom.  Once the looms where uncrated and yarns unpacked, I still couldn’t weave.  I couldn’t figure out what to make, what colors to use, what fibers to pick.  I was frozen.  I had no muse.  I had weaver’s block, I guess.  A friend in another state told me that she could hear it in my tone of  email that I was stressed and needed to weave.  So, I forced myself to prepare a warp.  I still was blocked.  I couldn’t see a project in my mind.  But I made myself go through the motions.  I just picked random colors.  After all, if it was a total bust, I could over dye the cloth, or use it for towels, or something.  I wound my warp, I put it on the loom, and I wove.  Withing minutes, joy flowed back into my fingers.  I felt it move through my body.  That’s when I remembered how much I love to weave. I have spent much time in prayer at my loom.  I can spend time with my God and feel His presence.  I know, I can hear some of you now, “You can be with God anywhere”, you say.  Yes, you can.  I’ve felt Him on the mountain top (seriously, I’ve been on Mt Rainier, I have felt God there), I have felt him in the valley (yup been to the Grand Canyon) felt him in the desert (lived in one for 5 years) and the list goes on.  But the times spent at the loom are our special time together.  Yesterday was a wonderful time.  Ahhhh, I’ve missed it but how I loved the peace that washed over me.

 

THE WEAVER

author unknown

My Life is but a weaving
between my Lord and me;
I cannot choose the colors
He worketh steadily.

Oft times He weaveth sorrow
And I, in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper,
And I the under side.

Not til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly,
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.

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.

He knows, He loves, He cares,
Nothing this truth can dim.
He gives His very best to those
Who leave the choice with Him.

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