Hello Dear Readers,

Threads

And I look to the fabric of my life and cry out, betrayed: “God, what have you done?”

And I remember how I saw the future in my earlier years, when life was knit tight by hope and made bright by the confidence that I could swing through anything that threatened my stride.

And I visit the mausoleum of my past assumptions, when I knew I was destined to rise through better jobs, stronger bank accounts, and blissful, stacked-up wedding anniversaries, smug with how well I chose and how much I had earned.

And now, the past assumptions strip me like the thief who left me hollowed out from loss, weeping into the fabric of my days as though life were a funeral shroud that has coiled itself around me way too tight and way too soon.

It is stained, I say. It is old, I say. It is misshapen, I say. It is good for nothing, I say—not even for rags.

And I grip the ruined fabric and I heave up a litany of accusations, believing God has failed me. I lift my saltwater stare towards the heavens and beg for answers. Was it You, God? Was it me, God? Which one of us went so wrong that I’m here, now, after all I have fought through?

I always

did my best,

I always

picked the right fight,

I always

worked hard—more than my body could bear

I always

did it for the good of my family, yet

I never foresaw

life turning out like this.

And I can’t make sense of the stained and tattered life I have, with no money and bad health and impressive degrees with zero ability to put them to work.

And I cry, and I cry, and I cry, in many tongues:

God,

I lament.

I lament.

I lament.

And God looks at my saltwater eyes and sees Her oceans. God touches the taste of my tears and sees Her infinite ways. God, our caring Mother, leans towards my wounds and honors the sacred need to weep. She sings prayers over me as I suck in bitterness and weep out confusion.

And God touches the fabric I’m wringing and shows me.

God shows me that it does not hold the shape of a shroud, but the tapestry of voracious hope. It is not threadbare, but is knit with the tensile strength of thickly wired healing. It is the soft blanket of warmth, crafted to cover the release of rest. It has the eclectic shape and the unbreakable strength of community. It is now woven from the wisdom of pain survived, not the whispery dreams of a young woman naive. It holds the secret of my own truth-telling reflection, never known to me in my youth.

And God shows me the golden threads which sewed the pieces back together through the unsurvivable slashings. And God traces my finger over the places of flawless mending, bought by years of heavy labor. And God makes me see the threads of heaven in my life; a filigree of rare blessing stitched into my very bones.

And I know that the threads of moments shared—God’s strongest elixir of community—have saved me. And I hold each thread in kneeling adoration.

The thread of Mia’s sacred offering of paella, shared over ancient inside jokes and wine.

The thread of years’ long text threads sharing TikToks, smutty memes and unwavering support…my only smile on most days.

The thread of sitting at the little table under the big window in Monaco’s kitchen, seeing Johnny off in his morning’s flurry and sitting quietly with Bill in the evenings after his workday is through.

The thread of watching the children thrive and stretch and whirl during family zoom calls. Blessed be these families, with their wildest-dream mothers and fathers. As I smile at the screen, I hear God Herself declare that these, our little ones, are good.

The thread of lending a portion of my healing’s wisdom back to the spiritual uncle who is responsible for so much of my own repair.

The thread of holding baby Mabel close, in awe and fear and worry and with that intense, possessive love that only rises up for the most vulnerable among us. And bearing witness to the truth of how one precious life secured can mean the depletion of a good mother’s strength. And witnessing still how Mom’s sacrifice has gifted the world with a chubby, happy, kicking, raspberry-blowing cherub.

The thread of being grateful for my mother, whose help has taught me that, through being the daughter of Nancy, I am a true daughter of God.

The thread of counting on weekly debriefs that connect me to the world and draw up the sacred conversations which nourish and uplift and sometimes uncover wounds, just to build healing.

The thread of leaving my apartment in pajama pants so that I can crawl into the safe, adoptive bubble of the Big Cheese Oasis and draw from all its iterations of acceptance, beauty and nourishment.

The thread of generosity, which threw a rope over the waterfall of poverty, so I could get across. And I see all of these threads of love, and I know God has not failed me. Nor have I failed myself.

And I know that this life is good,

because you are with me and I am loved.

because I am with you and you are loved.

And then I can hold the tear-dampened cloth that is my life and say thank you.

Amen.

Caroline here again. I hope in this poem you can feel in every line the hope that surpasses understanding. May you find some hope for yourself in these words. To read more beautiful writings from Karla, you can check out her blog here. For stories from other survivors, click here.

Many blessings! Caroline