When I was a little boy, my mother used to embroider a great deal. I would sit at her knee and look up from the floor and ask what she was doing. She informed me that she was embroidering. I told her that it looked like a mess from where I was. As from the underside I watched her work within the boundaries of the little round hoop that she held in her hand, I complained to her that it sure looked messy from where I sat. She would smile at me, look down and gently say, "My son, you go about your playing for awhile, and when I am finished with my embroidering, I will put you on my knee and let you see it from my side." I would wonder why she was using some dark threads along with the bright ones and why they seemed so jumbled from my view. A few minutes would pass and then I would hear Mother's voice say, "Son, come and sit on my knee." This I did only to be surprised and thrilled to see a beautiful flower or a sunset. I could not believe it, because from underneath it looked so messy. Then Mother would say to me, "My son, from underneath it did look messy and jumbled, but you did not realize that there was a predrawn plan on the top. It was a design. I was only following it. Now look at it from my side and you will see what I was doing."
Many times through the years I have looked up to my Heavenly Father and said, "Father, what are You doing?"
He has answered, "I am embroidering your life."
I say, "But it looks like a mess to me. It seems so jumbled. The threads seem so dark. Why can't they all be bright?"
The Father seems to tell me, "My child, you go about your business of doing My business, and one day I will bring you to Heaven and put you on My knee and you will see the plan from My side."
One day I will be with Him and will see it from His side, and we all will find that our lives were planned and that the dark threads were necessary. That which seemed jumbled from underneath looks perfectly orderly and according to God's plan when we see it from His side. One day, upon hearing that one of my dearest members had cancer, I put the above thoughts to rhyme and meter.
'Twas just a little wooden hoop
Her caring hands would clasp.
Some cloth, some thread, a needle's point,
As treasures she would grasp.
"What are you doing, Mother dear?"
My straying voice would cry.
"Embroidering," she answered clear,
With mothering reply.
"I must confess, 'tis quite a mess,
Oh, erring mother mine.
Why waste your day to idly play
With balls of tangled twine?
"Why, Mother, are the darkened strands
So mingled with the bright?
You hold some black threads in your hand;
Why can't they all be light?"
"My son," soothed Mother's smiling voice,
"Your view is from below.
When I am through I'll beckon you,
And then, you too, can know.
"You cannot see from 'neath my knee
What I can see from here.
So play awhile, my restless child,
And I will lift you near.
When Mom was done, she cooed, "My son,
Come sit upon my knee.
Come quickly, crawl upon my shawl,
It's time for you to see."
I soon found rest upon her breast,
To see from Mama's side
To my delight, a sunset bright,
A view I'd been denied.
"What wasn't known to you, mine own,
Is that another's hand
Had drawn for me to plainly see
A predetermined plan.
"The course I took, I ne'er forsook.
A wiser one's design
He'd placed a plan within my hand,
That was not really mine.
"Bright threads alone could not have shown
The beauty of the rays;
One must weave night with daytime light
Or know a glary haze.
"What was to thee, where thou could see,
A messy underneath,
Was from my eyes a sweet surprise,
A lovely evening wreath."
"What are You doing, Father dear?"
My aching heart doth sigh.
"Embroidered in my life I see
Some dark threads drawing nigh.
"'Tis messy too, from earthly view
That I know here below.
Don't weave my life with shadowed strife;
Please send me only glow."
I heard a loud, yet silent voice:
"Look up to Me, My child,
Just be about My business now;
I'll show you after while.
"You need the night as well as light
To make you hold My hand.
You need the dark as well as bright
To do My perfect plan.
"One day, twice born, I'll blow My horn.
And make you be as I.
I'll let you come to My own home,
Where you will never die.
"'Tis then you'll find, dear child of Mine,
My plan was always best.
Just trust, don't worry, doubt, or fret.
Come unto Me and rest.
"So trust Me now, though furrowed brow
Seems oft thine earthly plight.
I'll hasten near to wipe your tear
That falleth through the night.
"Just do My will and love me till
My face is in your sight.
Then you will se, 'twas best for thee—
Your Father's plan was right."
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