A Rhythm

I’ve learned the good things in life all have their rhythms.

As a child I learned to play the guitar, awkwardly strumming and counting beats in a measure.

Baking bread is an art with a rhythm: mix, knead, rest, rise, knead, rise, bake.

I breathed a rhythm with all my strength that January night my baby was born.

Today I am counting my stitches, crocheting a scarf for a friend. Never mind that I wanted to have it finished by Christmas and here I am, after Valentine’s and still single-single-double-skip. There are uneven places that mark where I hurried. A steady pace and concentrated eye, a still and relaxed body are the key for me.

As I sit and my hook goes in and out, the soft grey yarn gliding through my fingers, I embrace the slow and steady nature of this work. I settle in, cozy on the couch in the quiet of babies’ nap time, aware that other tasks will still be waiting when I have finished a few more rows.

I begin to savor the pace, the predictable rhythm. Single-single-double-skip. 

As I sit and count my stitches, I can almost imagine myself in this same rhythm in fifty years, grey-headed and crocheting single-single-double-skip. I hope I’ll be a kind, loving, praying old woman. And as I begin the next row, I say a prayer for the one who will wear this scarf.

Single-single-double-skip, quiet and listening now, observing the rhythm of winter outside my window. Thinking of rhythms of life and death, birth and rebirth, etc. With each steady, sacred stitch I trust I am becoming that kind, loving, praying old woman.

Fifty years of growth won’t make me kind enough, unless Jesus change my heart.

I hope this rhythm and many others will be more practiced by then. And I pray I will have finished this scarf by then!

The moon keeps track of the seasons, the sun is in charge of each day. When it’s dark and night takes over, all the forest creatures come out. The young lions roar for their prey, clamoring to God for their supper. When the sun comes up, they vanish, lazily stretched out in their dens. Meanwhile, men and women go out to work, busy at their jobs until evening. {ps. 104}

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6 thoughts on “A Rhythm

  1. Love this Jordan. My grandma was so good to crochet and quilt and this makes me think of the prayers she would tell us that she took to the Lord as she did her craft. Prayers for her family members. She would say prayers with her stitches. Can’t wait to see her in heaven one day and bet I’ll understand her German then…too. Love you. Gma Kris

  2. A Rhythm. A profound, simple truth, well put. You painted an image with sound, woven into an age-old activity. Uniquely done!
    Love ya, sister ;-)!
    }Y{ Nora

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