I was ironing some curtains this morning, the flax linen kind. If you look close enough, you can see each individual thread — none of the strands are exactly the same color, making them identifiable even when knitted together.  

The stack of curtains is thick. I hoist them up over the ironing board one after another. It takes both of my hands to gather the warm, textured fabric and move it across the board in sections to iron the whole piece. The ironing is a rhythmic task; working through it like wading in a pool of molasses. These curtains aren’t the sheer kind, thin in my fingers and light in my arms. No, these are thick, opaque in color, designed to shield outside light and hold inside warmth. Carrying each one up the staircase is a mild workout. 

I can’t help but think there’s something to these threads. They’re crying out, stretching toward something greater. Are we the thin, fraying strands in life’s tapestry? Or are they a monument to our days, each strand a moving timeline of past, present and future? 

Maybe that’s a stretch. They are, after all, just curtains. But these are the pieces of life. The threads weave into a  tapestry, and it is so, so beautiful. But the beauty isn’t just in the outcome – it’s in every thread touching another, knitted together. These are the elements crying out for more — our fundamental desires to belong, have purpose and meaning. Could it be that we spend our lives searching for meaning when in fact we’re in it right now? 

I wonder, feeling the textured fabric in my hands, what — or, who — may be weaving over, under, around me even now. What could we accomplish if we knew? 

Written by Sarah Pryor, Creative Content Coordinator

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