Twisted and knotted, looped and pulled, I yanked on the yarn again and again as I undid my work. Hours of work.
The unravelling continued to the very last stitch.
The discomfort of unravelling every neat little stitch that had been hooked into prior rows of neat little stitches was maddening, but there was no escaping it.
I discovered my mistake too late, and while I had the option of pretending it wasn’t there, and continuing on by altering the pattern slightly, I knew it would never be perfect that way, and it would probably affect the end result, too.
Twice, I unravelled those stitches.
And each time I heard the still small Voice speak to my of my own fraying edges.
Places where I’ve stitched false foundations and find myself here, wondering if I should continue on as though nothing is wrong, or, bravely unravel.
My inner unravelling has long begun already.
I couldn’t choose to build on anything that wasn’t Right.
We’ve called it unlearning.
Questioning the things we’ve not thought to question before.
Wondering if our truths are Truth, and if words we hear are really Words and if the way we’re walking really is The Way or if we missed it in a multitude of tiny ways; like tiny stitches we didn’t notice were wrong until suddenly the whole doesn’t look like it’s supposed to.
So we bravely unravel.
We line up the crooked edges of our thoughts, our theologies, our attitudes, with the straightness of the Word and we begin again.
We’re holding those things up to the Light so we can see them properly.
We ask for hearts of flesh instead of stone.
We ask for new wine skins, to contain the freshly crushed grapes.
And we unravel, and it’s uncomfortable.
Ripping away that which has been stitched together for so long hurts.
But it’s the only way.
This third time my crocheted edges are less crooked.
The stitches are aligned, and I continue to finish the pattern.
A project bigger than my usual level of commitment.
But, stitch by stitch, I know I can get to the end, however slow, and however much unravelling must occur.