faith unfaded

I thought my story unraveled,

knots and tangles everywhere,

loose ends fraying at the edges,

too broken to ever repair.

But the Weaver never stopped working.

Quiet hands, steady and kind,

pulled beauty through every failure,

sewing grace I could not find.

Now I notice in the pattern

what His steady hands have made —

even tears became the windows

where His brighter light cascades.

Threads of gold across my weakness,

lines of mercy stitched in tight.

What I called the end of my fabric

was the canvas for His light.

And when I stand in heaven’s presence,

clothed in garments not my own,

I will thank Him for the weaving

that turned broken into gold.