History’s fabric is woven as a seamless thread,

even though it appears to us as torn asunder,

not only frayed at the edges, rough,

but falling to pieces, hardly even holding together.


What human eyes see, however, is not the fullness,

and the great Weaver of Time weaves away,

twitching the needle ceaselessly through the fabric,

his wisdom immeasurable, his love infinite.


O great Weaver of the threads of temporality,

weave into my life the mystery of eternity,

for the needle that pierces time, pierces hearts,

is the Cross of Christ, your Son.


Not alone in this, are we, for he first was pierced,

and we in him are pierced by the love that he first bore,

and he weaves away with you, tugging ceaselessly,

as all is woven into the sinews of his own Heart.



Man is more than his story, his past, his wounds,

since his roots reach down deeper, surer,

into the creative act at the origin of all,

the history before his history,

the conception before his begetting.


Surety is found in this, and serenity in love,

for this origin is one of pure loving, of God’s love

mothering forth the child even before the womb;

before the seed of fertilization, the word was known in God.


Beloved, cherished, known, and held,

from eternity unto eternity, you are mine;

even though only in a temporal moment, child,

did you come to be in all reality, in essence,

in the substance of spirit and of flesh.


Yet I knew you always, and willed for you to be,

to be yourself in fullness of life, and being,

and to be, in being, simply and wholly mine.

This is the story that is your history, and destiny, forever.



From this origin of origins all life flows,

and for good or ill it is influenced, swayed,

by the fabric of time, by human choice.


For the fabric, indeed, is disfigured, even as I work,

and whenever a tear is made I set to work immediately

to repair what is broken, to restore what is lost.


Still human freedom abides, child, to resist the lance of love.

Will you let your history become His story,

or will you cling, closing tight in fright?


For the origin seeks to flow in you, even unto today,

and I can remove the obstruction, clear the path,

so that it flows in you, freely anew.


Then you will come to see, in the origin’s light,

the light of every moment, too, brilliant,

seen as I see, in the light of my own light.



Let the heat of love draw near; fear not the burn.

Let the scalpel open the incision to remove the sickness;

for in fact it is not removing anything but the fear,

and all that, of fear, is born, in sin.


And this cautery, this knife, is really but the needle knitting,

weaving you back into the fabric from which you went astray.

One body, only family, one communion born of one Communion.

This is the gift you are given in laying bare the heart.


Sweetness of love’s kiss, warmth of the tenderest embrace.

You long for this, even as, from it, you also flee,

for you fear the intensity of such a love, and its totality.

Can such love be? Truly, can such love be?


Or is all intensity a perversion, a molestation,

a force that rips and destroys and harms?

Is there truly a tender intensity of love,

pursuing chastely the long-beloved of the love-struck Heart?



Flee no more, my little beloved, my precious one,

for all the fabric of your life, torn asunder, irreparable,

is not at all irreparable for me, who am Love.


You wish for the very thing you fear, I know,

and so I wish to calm fear even as I give.

All that is required of you is trust, and trust’s surrender.


You are woven in the fabric, even if you rebel.

But let it be as it always has been, and in this find peace.

For beloved and sheltered in the one communion,

your joy is found in living the love by which you are loved.


The threads are woven between heart and heart, one body,

in the Body of the Son made man, God in human flesh,

whose Body is the meeting-place of all persons,

the Place of Convergence, where all lines intersect,

and from which, freely, fully, all rivers flow.



For time’s earthly communion, fabric-weaving and abiding,

is but a temporal expression of my own eternal life.

Indeed it shares in the eternal already, in each moment of time.


Do you understand this? Do you trust and see?

For all eternity, beginning without beginning,

end without end, the fullness of Now forever,

my life is one and indivisible, a pure fabric of love.


Yes, in the tapestry of eternity’s masterpiece

—in which you, beloved, and all my children, one body,

are destined by pure love and goodness to share—

the Father loves the Son and the Son loves the Father,

and the Two are united in perfect intimacy

in the Kiss of the Spirit whom, together, they share.