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.
My house is eerily quiet and empty. All the boys have left and we have packed up belongings. It is harder leaving the Bay this time around. I sat in my roommate Rudy’s favorite armchair this evening and cried big, ugly tears. And I never know if it truly is better to meet amazing people and have wonderful moments and experiences with them than to never have at all. The pain of leaving it behind certainly makes me sometimes lean toward I wish I did not know how great this all felt.
Sometimes, though, we don’t get to leave with all our ribbons tied and neatly placed on top of dainty packages. Sometimes there are messes that find no way to be cleaned because they were always going to be the types of messes that leave traces. And the most one can do is try to clear as much of the wreckage as possible, but being fully cognizant of the knowledge that it will go with you when you leave.
And I can’t pretend to even begin to understand what I’m supposed to learn from that. The primary lesson now seems only to be sadness and pain and bits of loneliness. It is in those moments between ugly tears that I throw up my hands and ask God when will I understand this. There has got to be secondary and tertiary lessons. Lessons that I may be able to live with a bit more easily. But I know I won’t have those answers. There will be no packages with beautiful ribbons when I leave on Tuesday. And the faith that every journey of the heart has deeper answers revealed with time. That God does indeed know, love, and care about every aspect of my life, and that even when I can’t see the greater design being woven, I have to trust in the bigger vision of the one weaving.
Odelia Younge 