Unravelling

 There is a song by Cory Asbury called “unravelling”.  It is unnerving and raw and there is a deep story there, as with many songs.  They touch our own deep and raw stories and minister to us all in different ways.  The last lines of the song haunts me: 

“I’m coming apart at the seams, it’s worse than I thought it would be … but I have never been happier.” 

They haunt me, because I am not there. The song takes me to my raw sadness and I feel deep loss, and then it ends with, “I have never been happier.” It is just not the way I would end the song. It feels so wrong for me, for my story, for my pain, for my loss. I can’t imagine ever being ‘happier” again. I know it sounds hopeful, but it is hard to hear when you can’t imagine it is even possible.

I have a dear friend who is currently knitting a blanket for me as she is praying for me. What a gift, what a beautiful thing to do for someone. Over the 4 months of my trip she is knitting, creating and praying while she knits. 

‘I am shaping the physical representation of my prayers for you, so when you arrive home, you can keep warm and snuggle under our love.”  (her words).  

I understand enough about knitting to know it takes a long time to create something.  It is a slow process and it requires you to sit still. All good things for healing and prayer. But I also know that with knitting, if something goes wrong or you make a mistake you can’t just keep going on and hope it fixes itself. In fact, sometimes the mistakes or accidents are so big that you must unravel the knitting back to the point where the incident happened and start again.  If you have come so far, it is painful to unravel and start again. I mean really, let’s be honest, who wants to do that?  I get why at this stage some simply quit. There are many pieces of knitting in people’s homes which are unfinished, I am sure.  It is easy to feel gutted and like it has all been a waste of time. 

While my friend is knitting me a blanket of love, I find myself in a time of life where the unravelling is so painful, so huge, so overwhelming that I can’t ever imagine being happier.  To unravel something that has been made over many years still takes my breath away, daily.  I feel each day, a piece is being unraveled and I watch all that I thought was being created with love and care and joy, being unraveled with silence, confusion, hurtful words and actions, shame and doubt, fear and hopelessness. I know what it is like to feel gutted. I have felt the pull of wanting to quit, the questions ‘WHY’ with no answers?

To unravel a mistake makes sense. Although I am not the perfectionist, I would probably leave the mistakes and see them as unique and special. That says a lot about me, doesn’t it?  However, there are times when this is necessary. I am all for refining and becoming the best you, the you you’re created to be, and that means at times the “unravelling’ is the best thing for you.  

But then there are times when something beautiful is being "unraveled” and to watch that, is to break your heart. It is like when you get a snag in your favorite jumper. Worse still is when someone comes along and deliberately begins pulling a loose piece, as a joke, or maybe they are not even sure what they are doing. Sometimes it is meant to be hurtful, other times it is simply an accident. Either way it is something that happens to you and you have no control over it. This unravelling is the saddest kind. 

Whether it is a good or bad unravelling, I know the story of the unravelling is so that it can be re-knitted correctly or simply for the reminder that things unravel and there is always a chance to start again. In the end it is about the cycle of life and death, and that HOPE is sometimes all we have to hold onto. But when you are being “unraveled” is it is so uncomfortable. 

For me, every stitch that comes apart, releases another and another and pretty soon you find yourself with nothing to show for yourself for all that you have given and invested, wondering what was even real.  When it is unraveled, it is gone, you can no longer see it, you can’t get it back, you simply have to start again.

“Never be afraid to trust an unknown future to a known God”. Corrie Ten Boom

I am unraveling. I can’t say that I am happy, but I know the story isn’t over yet, the knitting of my life is not finished yet. And I know in the unknown re-knitting I choose to trust. It is all I can do. 

I imagine you have your own story of unravelling.  You may be at the beginning, you may be like me in the middle and not able to see the ‘happy’ yet, you may be at the end and able to sing, “I have never been happier”. This is the power of sharing our stories and unravelling together.  We see we are not alone, and that there is an end. We see with Him there is always HOPE that at the end of the knitting it will be beautiful. 

You've Got this

 Usually you get to see the sunrise once each day. I felt like I got six today when I didn’t even think I would get one. 

There is nothing more beautiful than when the sun bursts through the clouds and reveals itself, warms your face, causes you to squint because the light is so bright. It is letting you know it is there and shining right on you, as if it rose just for you. And anyone looking at it can feel the same way, all at the same time. Such is the power of the sunrise. 

I walked to the beach with my camera bag, towels, cup of tea and tripod in the dark to watch it rise. Today, there was a thick dark cloud covering the sun, it spread right across the place where the sun was trying to rise. It was one of those mornings I felt was not going to be a good morning for pictures.  The cloud cover was too thick, too encompassing, too consuming. I sat down with my camera in the bag on one side of me and the tripod in its case the other side of me, deciding maybe it wasn’t even worth getting the camera out at all this morning. I watched the sun wrestle the clouds. I suppose it could have been worse, I could have looked out my window, seen the cloud cover and turned over and gone back to bed. 

 I watched the sun try for 40 minutes to rise out of the cloudcover. I got distracted and started taking photos of my mug and “3:16” anklet and wondered if this was enough of a reminder today. My mug says, “you’ve got this”, quoting Matthew 9:26 “… but with God all things are possible”. 

The sun would come and then the thick cloud would cover it again and then it would disappear and then come again ... over and over this morning ... until finally it stayed. Triumph at last. I am glad I stayed and watched, and the process was still beautiful. 

As I watched it unfold I wondered where was my focus? On the dark, thick, all-consuming cloud.  Or was it on the spray of light that told me the sun was there and although not in full effect yet, it was showing me that it had not gone away, given up or that it would not be defeated. Each time it was like the sun rose for the first time, a new perspective, a new photo and then it left again. The dark cloud would not deter its purpose and mission to shine today. As you can guess, you know where most of my focus was. It was on the dark cloud. And yet, every time the light broke through, I couldn’t miss it. It was overwhelming at times and unmissable. In fact, I got to see it 6 times, in case I missed it the first time. The light will always break through. 

 

The sun eventually overcame the dark cloud and rose above it and filled the sky with its radiance and my heart was warm again. But the trick is staying there, isn’t it? I packed up my camera and tripod, towels and precious cup that said, “All things are possible” and with a smile, wandered back to the van. 

10 minutes later I placed my things on the table and bumped the cup and it smashed all over the ground. This cup was not going to triumph over this defeat. A man walking past said, “oops … can you fix it with glue?” I frowned and said, “no, this one is unfixable”.  Not all things are possible in this broken world and within 10 minutes.  of such a wonderful revelation I could feel myself heading into the thick cloud again. 

 

Julian of Norwich promises that, in spite of appearances to the contrary, all is well. Not just that creation was beautifully made to begin with, and that it will all work out in the end, but that everything is all right at every moment, if we could only look through the eyes of love. Such a perspective is difficult to sustain, Julian would be the first to admit. In rare moments of unitive consciousness—watching the sun rise, maybe, or giving birth, or singing to God in community—we may have fleeting glimpses of the cosmic design and see that it is good. But then the veil drops again and we forget.^[1]

I turn to look up and see the sun still shining. Not all is possible, but anything God is in, I have to believe is possible, even when I can’t feel or see it. 

 

A timely message comes to me today from my wise mum: 

 

“Beauty comes from a spirit that has weathered many hardships in life and somehow continues with resilience. Grace can be found in a soul who ages softly, even amid the tempest” ... she continues. “Perhaps the loveliest of all is the one whose gentle heart bears a hundred scars, yet still finds a way to pick up the lamp one more time, to light the way for love.” 

 

Yes, today, I thought I was getting up to photograph a sunrise, but I walked away being reminded that in beauty and pain, He is always LOVE, and His love never changes. His light will break through. All things are possible. Help me Lord, for that to always be my focus. Perhaps He really was saying, “You’ve got this" and I clearly need to hear it more than once.

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^[1] Mirabai Starr, “Introduction,” The Showings of Julian of Norwich: A New Translation (Hampton Roads: 2013), xix