The Intricacies of The Grand Weaver

 Many, many years ago, there was written a poem called The Weaver which metaphorically spoke of the author's relationship with God as being woven as on a loom. The threads, the colors, the pattern are all at God's disposal as He skillfully crafts a beautiful end-product - a combination of both joy and sorrow that is seen only to Him. I've always loved this poem but it hit me in a different way recently as I had one of those rare moments when you must sit back and shake your head in surprise at the design God has been creating.   

Weeks ago, I sat with my mentor and honestly shared with her that I haven't been back to the hospital where my dad was treated in years. It's just been too traumatizing to even drive by there. I've tried to avoid it. It's been a site that reminds me of long days spent imprisoned in a heart of fear with oh, so many questions and doubts, contemplating the loss of my youth and the uncertainty of our future. Although it's a place that saved his life, it's just the location of too many hard memories for me to be near it... so I don't. I take different routes. I've tried to move on. 

But then I get a text from my good friend, a Marine veteran, telling me that a special traveling exhibit detailing the sobering story of the Marines of Lima Company, 3rd Battalion, 25th Regiment who deployed to Iraq in 2005. The unit was compromised of men from several states, including Alaska. Out of the entire battalion, forty-seven paid the ultimate sacrifice... twenty-two of them from Lima Company alone! It was an historic loss for such a small group, particularly since so many were reservists that didn't even serve full time. Among those lost was a charismatic young man named Lcpl. Grant Fraser. A lifelong Alaskan, he was extremely liked and respected among those he served with... one of them being my late best friend, Ssgt. Alex Ramon. 

My first encounter with Grant's story (and with the whole unit, really) came at the end of that deployment when I was invited to join with the families to welcome them home. My beginning memory of Grant and all of them was of a Marine carrying some of his remains off the plane, followed by the tired survivors in his squad who had lost their best buddy. As I stood there and felt the full spectrum of emotions, I knew that my life was going to be changed forever - I just didn't know exactly how. 

Over the past nineteen years, it has since fallen to me to be part of helping to tell the story of these men and their sacrifices, including that of Grant and another from that group who went back to Iraq and gave his life one year later. The loss and pain of this unit has been astronomical, and the healing journey each has been has been anything but easy. A couple of them I know well nearly took their lives because the weight they've born has been so difficult. War does that to you, and you are never the same. But I've also felt an immense pride in being among those who had personal contact with these stories of courage and who are being asked to ensure the memory of these men will never be forgotten. 

I was relieved and proud to know that these men and their stories won't be lost forever but, as I drove to the event, I couldn't help but notice the irony: the location of the display? directly across the street from that very hospital I have avoided all these years. I could feel the chest tightening as I traced the same route to get there that I rode so many times that summer dad was so sick. The memories never leave you, however much you'd wish them to. And then it struck me... 

The very site of our deepest pain can sometimes be the exact ground on which God seeds something new.

As I walked into the exhibit, I told God my heart was open to whatever new thing He wanted to do. Because I know better than to resist the intricacies of the Grand Weaver when He is up to something. I took in the scene deeply: beautiful artwork showcasing the faces of the fallen, battery candles lit and "flickering" in their honor, boots lined up to represent them. The care and concern that went into this was truly beyond amazing. I soon found Alex's former sergeant- the one who had invited me to this and had the privilege of leading these men, including Grant. 

Over the next two hours, we exchanged stories, hugged, and took in the immense pride of seeing the community come and appreciate what these young men did. I spoke with the artist who did this incredible display and listened as the sergeant was given a chance to speak and share his memories of Fraser. The entire time, I couldn't shake the feeling that God was mysteriously working through the conversations and interactions that were taking place. And when I rounded the backside of Grant's painting, where a panel details some of the names of those in the company (all are mentioned collectively between all the artwork panels), tears filled my eyes as I noticed that my Alex's name was there... near his buddy Grant's... and now both of them are, in a way, traveling the country together and telling their story. 

Nineteen years ago, I stood as a plane touched ground, bringing these men and their fallen warrior home. Over nearly two decades now, my life has since intertwined with theirs, serving as a safe place for their stories, their feelings, and their burdens. As I stood there, I had to ask God why. Why have you chosen me for this? Perhaps I'll never know. But one thing is sure: the Grand Weaver never misses. Never gets a single thing wrong. Ever. And bringing me back to the very location I'd so long avoided was once again proof of that. God sees things as we never will, and that's why He's the Master Creator. 

Not once have I been able to predict the weavings of this story. I could have never guessed it would go on this long or that I'd continue to be part of it past that one evening. I didn't expect the friendships and the memories that have been made. I didn't expect the losses either. Since that night, two of the Marines who were part of that group, including my Alex, died in the years that followed. There has been deep pain coupled with profound gratitude and joy. But maybe that poem-writer was onto something when he said that God "gives the very best to those who leave the choice with Him." 

It's hard sometimes to accept the difficult things from the hand of God. But I've slowly learned that the sorrow is as much a part of the design as the joy. I'm only looking at the jumble of threads whereas God is seeing the overall vision of where He wants it all to end and one day, He "will unroll the canvas and reveal the reasons why." Until then, all the threads are needful and even more so is the faith to keep trusting the Weaver's skillful hands. I do not know where this will go, but I do know Who is taking it there, and I believe Him. If He can create something so intricate as what has happened these past nineteen years, where could it all go from here? 

With eyes open and also my heart, I continue to look for His design because one day, I know it will make sense. For now, I'm content with glimpses. And those glimpses give me faith the final outcome will be glorious and the threads of sorrow will be redeemed. The story isn't over for the lives of those in Lima Company, and it's not over for my journey either. God's still crafting and, amidst the sadness, I have every reason to hope. 

*If you want to go and see the Eyes of Freedom exhibit, visit: www.limacompanymemorial.org