I didn’t know the meaning of fray until my mother taught me how to thread a needle. Sitting in her bedroom closet on a folding chair, because that was the only space for her machine and sewing supplies, she put my hands under the light and talked me through it. As the thread split apart and blocked the entry, she snipped the end and had me try again. And again. She had me close one eye. Then the other. The needle moved from side to side. Was the winking to signify I too was in on the joke, in on the fray? Slower, she cautioned. Breathe. And then, without my knowledge or permission, it went through. So excited I jerked around to show her, and it came undone, but still… So I did it again. And again. She held the small of my back, willing the patience to see me beyond the fray, beyond the passing, finally being ready to sew. 

Oh, patience…she can be a fickle neighbor. Coming by when you swear you don’t need her, avoiding you when you do. But I hope I’m getting better. Leaving that entry open. Even though sometimes it’s like passing through the eye of that very needle. But patience does come. Will come. Beyond the fray. 

And that’s when you hope you’re blessed, blessed to be with someone who will see you through that fray. Wait with you. Breathe with you. Celebrate when you make it beyond. That was my mother. She taught me how to sew. She’s still teaching me how to live.