On our summer trip, I continued working on a cross-stitch I haven’t touched for over a year. It was on my dresser this morning and the one word I have stitched in there, only part of the whole statement, spoke louder to me than a sentence or paragraph might.
These past two weeks, it seems, some act of terror, some tragedy, is committed every day. Single killings. Mass killings. Protests that turn to horror. Events that turn to tragedy.
God help us.
I know He does. I know He did, when He sent His son, the Prince of Peace, to die for a broken land. I know He will, when He returns to bring a Kingdom of Peace.
But today, the thought seems a faint shadow of hope in the midst of today’s world, plunged in violence.
Last night, while I worked on the cross-stitch for a few minutes, my son Aiden was watching me. He asked why the picture looked bad from the back. He asked if he should get scissors to cut off the mess because it wasn’t pretty like the front.
I told him that if he cut the threads from the back, it would ruin the picture I’m stitching into the front.
And I thought of this world. And God’s plan. And grace. And how so little seems to make sense so much of the time.
I told my son life is like that sometimes, with God creating a picture, something beautiful, but all we see so often is the tangled mess in the back.
This morning, when that single word seemed to shine, I realized sometimes we see a hint of the front too. A glimpse of the true picture. But unfinished. Vague. Like through a glass darkly. And all we feel is a longing of some sort. Like a longing for peace. For love to prevail. Forgiveness. Grace. Mercy.
Perhaps the longing itself is a sort of prayer for the Prince of Peace. A sort of cry that says, Even so come, Lord Jesus.