A Single Stitch

A friend of mine recently took up embroidery. Her first piece was large and detailed. It included a dozen or so different colored threads and several different stitch designs. I was very impressed with her skill. A few days after completing her intricate piece she posted this picture. She was beginning her 2nd pattern, and although it's just a single stitch, something about this image struck me and stuck with me. I couldn't seem to get it out of my mind. What was she making? What would this single stitch become? There was just something so beautifully simple about the image and the great potential that it represented. With her hands she could fashion this stitch into anything she imagined. 

As I stared at the stitch I wondered what drew me to it. Perhaps we had something in common. Perhaps the simplicity and potential hidden in this single thread is something that I crave deeply. Perhaps I long to be the artist--to have control over where the needle moves next. Perhaps this single stitch seems too fragile, too weak, or too vulnerable to become something more, something beautiful, something grand. Although these questions began with real interest in a literal fabric, thread, and needle, it soon became apparent that my inquisitions and infatuation with this thread went much deeper. Perhaps in a way I see myself as the thread.

Several years ago, when my daughter was just 5 days old, my husband was in a car accident that should have ended his life. I can recall everything about the moment when I received the phone call from EMS. I remember staring out into the dimly lit backyard holding tight to my new baby and asking over and over again, "Is he going to be all right?" There was frantic noise in the background--I could hear the faint beeping of monitors and the quick, urgent tones of many voices. I remember the stern and strong yet soft and gentle voice on the other end who simply repeated the words, "He's conscious, but you need to get to the hospital immediately."

In that moment I was completely helpless. I was stuck on replay. I repeated my question time and time again. I hoped to hear my husband's voice on the other end; to hear him in the background telling me he was fine and that everything would be okay. I didn't want that phone call to end because I feared that if I hung up I might never hear his voice again, I might miss his final words to me or even his last breath. I couldn't even comprehend how I might get to the hospital--my mind was spinning so quickly and yet couldn't come up with a coherent thought. I was fragile, weak, and vulnerable. My cry became a reverent and desperate plea, "Oh God, oh God, oh God." Those were the only words I knew. I couldn't pray for healing, I couldn't even cry out and plea for his life. 

Like this single thread, I often feel like I am easily broken. While this moment tore me to pieces, there have been many times in my life that I have been stretched and pulled to my limit. With the plague of depression, I am often left feeling weak, inept, and insignificant. In times of trials, I try desperately to wriggle myself this way or that--I think I know best. "What are you doing, God?" "I need my husband. My baby needs her Daddy."

On this day, I could only surrender. "Oh God." I whispered as I turned circles in the living room, as I pounded desperately on my neighbor's door, as tears stained my cheeks, as I ran into the ER, and as I pleaded with the receptionist to just let me back. "Oh God." I said now louder as I was abruptly shoved from the doorway of my husband's hospital room, the door slammed in my face. Before the door closed, I saw the neck brace, I saw the wires and the tubes, I saw the blood. But I waited. I rested my head on the door and cried. My whole body shook with sobs and I continued to now mouth the only words I knew, "oh God, oh God...".

The days and weeks that followed were straining. I was tried and tested--a new mom and now a caregiver. There were now two voices that called out to me during all hours of the day and night. There were two people who needed to be bathed, two people who needed to be dressed, two people who needed to be fed. Although nothing compared to the initial shock or those first few hours, I was broken. Worn down. But I did my best to put on a brave face. Sometimes, I pulled tight or lagged loose to change how others saw me. At times, I tried with all my might to direct the hand of the Embroiderer--to influence the needle to put the next stitch where I thought it would be best. I had an image in mind--what it would look like to be a new parent--and I struggled against the Creator to make my dream a reality. And while I'm confident that my artwork could have been beautiful, it would have failed immeasurably against the larger, more intricate, exquisite image in the Creator's mind. 

God knew, in his infinite wisdom, that I needed a new start. That our marriage needed a clean, unblemished linen to begin parenthood with. So, He went to work. He tore out the stitching that had been poorly placed, He removed patterns of guilt and unhealthy relational habits, he tore out the old, worn, and faded thread. I couldn't see it then, but he was giving himself a blank slate for something better--something vibrant, something strong, and something full of life.

Several months after my husband's accident, things began to return to normal--a new normal. We accepted an invitation for my husband to study at a library in Germany, and we soon found ourselves halfway around the world. I was postpartum and, in hindsight, experiencing many symptoms of PTSD. This was another tough season, but things that would have torn the pre-accident me apart, I was now able to face head on. I was stronger; I was braver; and more importantly, we were stronger; we were braver. I learned in these lonely months that I must learn to trust the Artist. I must learn to trust the One who directs the needle--the One who holds the ultimate pattern and can see clearly the full picture. 

During our time in Germany we were able to do some traveling across Europe. We spent several days in the Netherlands and on one occasion was able to visit the home of Corrie Ten Boom. Corrie was a Dutch Christian who worked with her family to hide and rescue many Jews from the terror of the Nazis during WWII. Corrie, along with her father and sister, were eventually discovered and arrested. She survived her imprisonment at several different concentration camps around Europe before her release at the end of  the war. She went on to continue to help and house those who needed aid and became a famous writer and speaker. During our tour, the guide showed us the beautiful embroidery below and told us of an illustration that Corrie often used when speaking. 

tenboom.org

Corrie would hold up the back side of the blue clothe and show her audience the hundreds of tangled and knotted threads. She would then ask, "Does God always grant us what we ask for in prayer?" After a brief pause, she would answer, "'No.' That is because God knows what we do not know. Look at this piece of embroidery. The wrong side is chaos. But look at the beautiful picture on the other side--the right side." Triumphantly, Corrie would turn the clothe over to reveal the detailed gold, silver, and pearl design of the embroidered crown--symbolizing the crown of eternal life. She continued, "[In our lives] we see the wrong side, but God sees His side all the time. One day we shall see the embroidery from His side and thank Him for every answered and unanswered prayer. Although the threads of my life have often seemed knotted, I know, by faith, that on the other side of the embroidery there is a crown." (Corrie Ten Boom, My Heart Sings).

On the day of my husband's accident I had no choice but to surrender. I was forced to trust the Creator. But daily, I am learning, in times of minor setbacks, in times of life changing loss, and in times of great joy, that God knows best. Only the Embroiderer can truly envision the completed masterpiece, even from the beginning, even before a single stitch has been completed. I'm learning to trust the One who holds the needle; to trust the One who formed all of creation with His voice, the One who knit me together, the only One who sees the full masterpiece of all eternity. From the first single stitch to the complete crown of eternal life and everything in between, it's best to trust the One who holds the needle, the One who drew the pattern, the One who promises to complete His very good, and beautiful work of art (Philippians 1:6).