Good morning, God of the small things.
I imagine that when you’re tending to a universe and spinning past, present and future into one continuous seam –
well, compared to that, my heart is a small thing.
Like the rip we found today on the back of our old couch.
Hidden and ordinary and a small thing – one heart among the billions beating now
(and what number all the hearts of eternity add up to, I’m sure I don’t know).
But this morning, as I knelt with needle and thread to mend that old couch,
it became a prayer.
To You. God of the sparrows, God of the lost cent and of the small things.
When your severe mercies pierce this finite life like a sharp steel needle,
let your healing chase those mercies through the holes. Bind my life up in Your love.
Sometimes your tenderness feels so sharp in my ragged edges…
But let me see past that to the unity you’re bringing to my chaos.
Fall over me, thread of God.
Burn through me, needle of God.
again and again and again and again and again and again –
till I’m bound to grace.
Bound to you.
The God of the small things, of the tired traveler, of the torn sinner.
God of the little things, of little people, like me,
who are waiting, like an old couch, for Your needle and thread.