I feel it in my hand.
Gossamer fine, delicate thread. I hold it loosely to be sure I don’t snap it. I’m following it. Spiderweb-delicate strand, it leads me; it pulls me forward.
Hand-over-hand I follow.
Sometimes, in deep, dark black nights I can’t actually see it anymore. I only feel it light and taut between my blind fingers. So soft, so insubstantial that sometimes I worry it doesn’t really exist. Sometimes, I doubt that this thin strand can lead me true.
I panic; what if I am lost?
But then the sun rises, it glints off the tiny strand and my heart beat calms, and I keep walking.
Pulling hand over hand toward I’m not sure where.
It’s been a long road. I wonder that the thread never gives out. It just keeps trailing between my fingers and I walk and walk and some days I stop walking. Some days I just sit with the thread draped over my knees and feel lost and lonely.
Time passes with tears and worry.
Prayer follows. Sometimes it feels hollow. Sometimes it feels true.
I disregard my feelings. I pick the thread up again between thumb and forefinger and stand up. I keep walking. I keep following. And I don’t let go the grip on that soft, delicate guide.
And then unexpectedly I’ve arrived.
He’s there, grinning giddy at me. He takes the thread out of my hand. I smile; I tell Him I can’t believe I made it. I was so worried the thread wasn’t real. Or that I would drop it, break it, or miss where it was leading me.
“Thread?” he says. And chuckles. “Some thread!”
I look back where I’ve come from. And this is what I see.
::“Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.”