Raw Edges

I am taking a sewing class with my daughters, for me, this is the third sewing class I’ve taken over the years and I still don’t get it.  So far not one sewing teacher has helped my sewing disability.  But there is just something inside me that continues to persevere, enduring the humiliation of bringing my unidentifiable, unfinished, sewing projects to class. 
Learning about raw edges in sewing class, I liken to those elements of my character that keep me kneeling again and again at the foot of the cross. No matter how I try to follow the pattern, I miss a step every time. 
Or those annoying raw edges that slip out unexpectedly—just when I thought I had them neatly tucked in, folded over, invisible, the slightest of raw thread reveals itself, unravels what I have accomplished. 
Raw edge revealed in the library as my son and I checked out books, movies, chatted with neighbors and town-folk.  And it happened before I could do anything about it, raw edge.  This  extraordinarily  attractive, long-legged, scantily clad tween daughter of an acquaintance exchanged polite nods with my son and I and all I could focus on were her abominably tight fitted short, shorts, her provocative demeanor.  When did this all happen, how did this happen? Wasn’t it just yesterday she was in Sunday school with my son, grinning toothless with be-ribboned ponytails?
Maternal heat fumed (radiated I am sure) as my raw edges began to unfurl into heaps of unspoken judgment; the rage battled within me as the mother of the young girl greeted us and then joined her daughter.  How could that mother allow her daughter to wear such…And my raw edges begin to further loosen from the folded edges.
I know that mother and all I could muster was an icy hello.  Now every raw edge exposed.  Hem out. Frayed.  Didn’t I just read about Jesus rebuking the scribes and Pharisees regarding their blindness to the condition of their hearts?  But how could I make this mistake again, I diligently took the lessons, I read the Book.
White-washed tomb. Spiritual pattern to follow, cut out perfectly.  All the tools are in my basket, the right notions.
My son observed, took it all in.  After friendly, obligatory exchanges made, we leave and I am left dragging my raw edges, trying to tuck them in. 
The car offers a quick reprieve to gather my thoughts—
I realize my raw edges are now gaping holes, rips.  Micah 6:8 resonates, He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness and to walk humbly with your God.” 
I needed to invite that mother and daughter to “dine at my table”. My motive is to emulate Jesus whom among his diners were the immodest, the provocative, you know the rest of the Parables.  Jesus,the tailor of hearts- patching them, redesigning them to bear good fruit. 
Of course we want our daughters to adorn themselves with modest apparel, as mentioned in I Tim. 2:9 or keeping private what is private.  More importantly, my focus should be the heart, the main stitch to life; it’s what keeps us knitted together. 
The exposure of my raw edges was a Calvary moment, the pride- hem ripped out to a place where I humbly approach the Master Craftsman to weave a new piece of grace-fabric into my patchwork heart. 
I pray that God allows my path to cross again with this woman and her daughter, that my raw is selvedge because of the Weaver.

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