Several years ago, I followed an embroidery account on Instagram. The wild creativity and intricate detail drew me in, frequently resulting in wide-eyed wonder at the finished projects.
Over and over, I told myself, One day I’m going to try that and This will be the year. Over and over, my fingers scrolled social media, tapping “like” but never picking up a needle.
A few months ago, as the realization settled in that my new normal for the foreseeable future required a screen not only for work but for church and for all communication with family and friends, I knew something would have to give.
My eyes hurt from straining, my arms (much like my apartment) felt empty, and my feet were restless as they carried me from one end of the hallway to the other and back again with nowhere else to go.
I declared this to be “one day” and purchased a beginner’s embroidery kit. When the instructions arrived in another language, I turned to YouTube for tutorials on various stitches. Half an hour later, with a needle in one hand and a wooden hoop in the other, I began.
It was slow-going, confusing, messy, and, if my hand slipped (which it often did), painful. Just as I got the hang of one stitch, I’d find that the next portion required another, and so down went the needle as my YouTube search history grew.
It wasn’t until finishing the pattern that it became clear God was teaching me a lesson with every stitch. When thinking about posting a picture of my very first attempt at embroidery, the strangest thought crossed my mind:
I think I want to display the other side.
From the back — and I promise this is true — it’s nothing short of a mess. You might be wide-eyed with wonder, but it’s from wondering, What exactly am I looking at here?
It doesn’t line up or add up. There are threads in knots and threads unraveling. But when I flip back and forth, looking at one side and then the other, it’s the underbelly and the backside, the tangled mess that brings tears to my eyes.
I know this. I’ve lived it. In some ways, we’re all experiencing it together this year. There’s a great unraveling — a slow-going, confusing, messy, and sometimes painful unmaking.
But something, even here and even now, is being made in us. The other side of the hoop, and the whole of Scripture, tells me this is true.
If God as an artist made you, then that makes you living, breathing art. Art that smiles and sings, wipes away tears and cooks dinner, tells stories and runs errands. Art that bleeds, art with wrinkles, art with kind eyes and laugh lines.
Art is what you do or make, yes, but it’s also who you are.
“God is not a technician. God is an Artist. This is the God who made you. The same God who lives inside of you. He comes into us, then comes out of us, in a million little ways. That’s why there’s freedom, even in the blah. Hope, even in the dark. Love, even in the fear. Trust, even as we face our critics. And believing in the midst of all that? It feels like strength and depth and wildflower spinning; it feels risky and brave and underdog winning. It feels like redemption. It feels like art.”
― Emily P. Freeman, A Million Little Ways
I think about this as the sun begins to set. I reach for my embroidery hoop and a new pattern, settle into the chair by the window, and pull the thread through as God paints the sky.
Soon, something will exist in what was once empty space. Little by little, stitch by stitch, something from nothing.
I might bleed a little or break a needle. There will be twisted threads and tangled knots. It’ll be messy. But it’ll be beautiful, too, because there’s always more to the story.
Years before embroidery entered my social media feed, I wondered how to best end my first book, the one that asks “Is God good in the messy middle?” The pages within refuse to accept an easy answer or cliche, but I’ll go ahead and spoil the ending: His goodness is woven all the way through. And so I wrote a prayer to close the book, giving it all back to the Answer I was looking for the entire time. It begins like this:
“Lord, help us to recognize that our story finds its meaning only in You. Show us that knowing the ending isn’t necessary for the here-and-now to be beautiful. Remind us that You turn messes into messages and tests into testimonies.”
He’s a kind Artist, a loving Father, a gentle Mother, the greatest of Storytellers. One day, the other side of the hoop will be revealed and we’ll all stand with wide-eyed wonder at the wild creativity and intricate detail of the One who wove us together (Psalm 139:13).
But for today, we simply believe. We wait with hope, we watch for redemption, and we trust that what looks like a mess is something beautiful in the making.