The thread and needle weave through the fabric, gathering together. Smooth seams, straight lines. Pleasant work, this.
And then it happens.
The needle slips, stabs, raking across my overworked fingers.
Hand withdraws in pain, blood flows, staining the fabric. Quick thinking and cold water removes the stain, and I watch as the reddish water flows in the drain, threads dangling.
As I gaze at the waning sunlight stretching across the counter, in hits me square in the chest.
I am a lover of words, a purveyor of words. I like the sweet savor of them wafting off the page. I treasure, hoard them. I speak as if they are precious jewels, and other times, like common paste jewelery.
Most of the time, my words heal. Bring comfort to others, encourage. Knit together.
But this day, I had used my words like that needle, digging hard into flesh, drawing blood, staining a relationship with hurt.
I found myself praying that the cold water of reconciliation and forgiveness will rinse out the stain…that wise words take the place of foolish, selfish ones, that the pain recedes. Only time will tell. But I do know that the needle will drop more carefully, measured pace, guarded tongue. Words filling silent prayers.