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.

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“Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.”
~Hebrews 11:1.


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