Even now, one of my son Luke’s favorite shirts sits next to my sewing box. Sometimes I will let 3 or 4 items pile up before I will sit down, open the box, thread a needle, examine the damage, and begin the careful work of mending, patching, repairing. How long will Luke have to wait until his shirt is once again ready for wear? Poor kid: perhaps a long time. If the shirt could mend itself, if it could thread the needle, take itself up into its own hands, perhaps it could be mended very quickly. But a torn shirt cannot mend itself. Mending comes from the hand of another.
It is in this sense that I have placed myself upon God’s pile of mending. This has been my primary reason for coming to Lake Junaluska—that my worn soul, my torn heart, my weary mind, battered by the relentless winds of Katrina and her cruel aftermath—might be repaired. There is nothing I can do to mend myself except to be still and wait. I cannot thread the needle, I cannot take myself into my own hands, I cannot assess the damage, I cannot make the repair anymore than I can sit upon my own lap or perform my own open heart surgery. The mending of my life will come from the hand of Another.
But even now I feel her hand upon me, tenderly examining the tear. I trust her judgment. She knows what to do. She is, after all the One who first chose the fabric and cut the pattern and fashioned that garment that has clothed my being. She will know how to mend what She made. And so I will place myself in her eternal safe-keeping and allow the mystery and miracle of her healing to happen.