The Thin Red Line

She sat for hours by her sewing machine, stitching and constructing small squares of fabric that would be pieced together for a quilt. She loved doing it but she did have to admit that there were times that the hours drug by so slowly and her back felt every minute of the aches and pains of it all. As she cut each tiny piece and measured and cut again her mind drifted to the days gone by where she used to watch her mother hand stitch all the tiny pieces together. Her mother would sit by a small lamp into the wee hours so that she could get her sewing done and still be able to get up early and make breakfast for her family. What dedication and love that she saw in those fleeting memories of her childhood. And now, here she was, well past midnight trying to secretly stitch the pieces for this quilt, a gift for her grand-daughter. As she top stitched the blocks with a contrasting red thread she looked back on her sewing lines and saw that the machine had skipped quite a few stitches,which was very evident because of the red thread. The thin broken red line was the straw that broke her. She growled under her breath as she knew that she would have to go back and tear all of those stitches out to rework them once more. As she pulled the fabric out from under the sewing needle of the machine she pricked her finger sharply on the needle and blood flowed down onto the fabric. She sighed and laid her head down on the machine and sighed heavily,not from the pain of the prick but sheerly from the weariness and frustration of it all. Why did she have to be so ridiculously finicky about each stitch being perfect? If only she had let it be she wouldn't have this blood stain to deal with now. Blood wasn't impossible to get out but it was troublesome because she knew that perhaps that block would fade a bit with the scrubbing. She had already put so much time and effort into it though that she couldn't bring herself to think of casting the whole block aside. " If not for the blood, if not for the blood" she thought wearily. Then, as quickly as it had slipped out of her mouth she caught herself. Again, she slumped over with her head on the machine and this time the tears flowed freely. She wept for a long time. After a few minutes she sat up, wiped her eyes and said, "Lord Jesus, I am so so sorry for my grumbling and my frustration. Please please forgive me." She knew that "if not for the blood" was the life tune of her heart! If not for the blood of the one who gave it all for her and everyone else that she wouldn't be living the joy filled life that she was living. If not for that thin red line of missing thread she wouldn't have pricked her finger and come to this place of realization and ultimate thanksgiving. She breathed in the moment, and as the tears were already beginning to dry on her cheeks she placed the quilt block back under the sewing needle and continued her task. She left that blood stain there on the fabric along with the missing threads of that thin red line. They would stay there as gentle reminders of all that she had gained from the moment and all that she'd gained because of the thin red line of the blood on the cross.