The Beauty in the Frayed Edges

A friend recently shared a story about loss. She told me that someone had said to her, “The last time I saw them was the last time I was supposed to.”

It was said in passing—part of her story—and yet it intertwined with mine.

Those words landed heavy. They made me think of my dad—the closeness we shared, and the closeness we sometimes didn’t. Of the guilt I carried for not being there at the very end.

I had flown hundreds of miles to be there through some of the hardest parts of ALS. I was there for the vent weaning, and I brought my kids months before to make memories while we still could. And yet, I still found myself replaying that final chapter, wondering if I could have done more.

Grief has a way of fraying the edges of your heart, of making you question if you could have loved better or shown up differently. For a long time, I sat with that feeling—like something had come undone that I couldn’t fix.

But lately, I’ve started to see something new.

God, in His quiet mercy, has been weaving new threads into my life—through people I hadn’t known before. Women who listen, pray, laugh, and show up. Some are in this same season of motherhood; others are a few steps ahead, their wisdom woven with tenderness. Each of them, in their own way, has become a thread in the tapestry of healing I didn’t know I needed.

James writes, “Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” — James 1:4

I used to think that meant enduring the hard things. But now I think it also means allowing God to keep weaving—to bring new color, new friendship, new purpose into the places that once felt like loss.

Motherhood has shown me that God’s threads don’t stop with grief. They stretch through growth, through friendship, through the quiet, everyday moments of showing up for one another.

Maybe the tapestry was never meant to be tidy or symmetrical. Maybe the beauty is in the mix of it all—the frayed edges, the bright new strands, the knots of grace that hold it together.

And maybe that’s what redemption looks like: not undoing what was, but adding something new.

“He has made everything beautiful in its time.”

—Ecclesiastes 3:11

A Prayer for the Unfinished Tapestry

Father,

Thank You for being the Weaver of it all—

for holding every thread of our lives,

even the ones that feel tangled or torn.

When I’m tempted to chase perfection,

remind me that beauty often lives in the frayed edges—

in the quiet places where Your grace holds things together.

Help me to trust the work You’re doing,

even when I can’t see the pattern yet.

Teach me to see the bright new strands You’re weaving—

through friendship, motherhood, and change—

and to rest in the truth that You make all things beautiful in time.

May my life reflect Your faithfulness,

not because it’s perfect,

but because it’s being woven by You.