MAKING SENSE OF THE LOOSE ENDS OF LIFE

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Late last night as I was about to go to bed, my lips opened and my heart chimed to the tune of a poem/song sung/written by an unknown author which I learned long ago. “My life is but a weaving” has many versions to it but the one that I’m most familiar with was taught to us by our young teacher who was also a good soloist.

Twenty-six years of my life has flowed into the tomb of time since then but the message of the poem remains as fresh as the day I first heard it. We may have lost hope in the middle of our life stories, but we don’t know the endings yet. It will all make sense on the other side.

My life is but a weaving

Between the Lord and me

I do not choose the colors

He worketh steadily.

Oftimes 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 till the loom is silent

And the shuttles cease to fly

Will God unroll the canvas

And explain the reason why.