it is a bobbin that hangs within my mind's eye;
like the pin box, it is old;
of tarnished brass from a Singer of long ago,
when my grandmother pushed the treadle with her feet.
One daughter sits now at such an old machine
and fits a blue bobbin to make the skirt,
that has carried me - with her love -
from Seattle in the states
to Nagara in Tanzania,
where I sit at evening now,
remembering the morning's bobbin.
The morning's bobbin was threaded with black, cotton thread,
smooth beneath its outside tangles.
I have tangled just such bobbins as a little girl,
learning how to sew,
and wonder, now,
why such a tangled bobbin skein
should come to me at dawn.
I think it is, again,
the message to let go;
to float, to lean, to trust;
to let the Living God take care of living me.
This trip has been so planned by Him,
and yet, this afternoon,
I pulled at the smooth thread of that planning,
and became knotted in air schedules and Victoria Station,
long before we have found Lake Victoria on the way to Serengeti.
I did not know,
as I tossed upon my bed
and tried to meet trains and buses and planes,
I did not know that tomorrow's plan to leave at 10
is tangled in impossibility;
there is no Monday bus.
As I pulled at anxiety,
the thread was already threaded;
for we must wait here,
for a bus
on a road
from here to there,
for we cannot hurry,
for we cannot leave.
We must learn to float on the moments of each day,
we must learn to lean on those we love,
and trust that God is watching all the moments
and all the love.
It is hard for an old thread puller to leave all up to God;
but I am trying,
I am trying;
to live for the now,
waiting, not for tomorrow,
but for the moments of this present day.