The Old Rug

 

God resisteth the proud,

but giveth grace unto the humble.

— James 4:6

 

            Two of our daughters are setting up their first apartments. I hate not having them under our roof any more. But I love unloading a lot of my pointless jun . . . I mean . . . it's nice to be able to help them equip and decorate their new places with a few extra odds and ends accumulated in our nearly 30 years of marriage.

 

            You know: not one, not two, but THREE used blenders, all still working, even the one in (shudder) 1970s mustard yellow. Countless baskets, bowls and kitchen implements. One daughter got the ancient yellow corn on the cob grippers; the other one got the green ones. And on and on.

 

            I stopped at the pile of old, used floor rugs, though. They wouldn't want them, anyway. The rugs are faded and frayed, torn and colorless. I keep them for winter days when thundering herds come stomping inside after sledding. An old rug just doesn't seem to "go" with a brand-new first apartment.

 

            But maybe it should. Like a lot of stuff you have around - even people - what looks like an old wreck, full of holes, can actually have more to give than stuff that's brand-spankin' new. Maybe that's a message the young ought to hear, nowadays.

 

            I'm not the only one who appreciates old rugs, either. Our relative, Joy, remembers her Grammy making a big braided rug. She took fabric from old, worn clothes, blankets and bathrobes and such, dyed it, and then cut it into strips. She gradually made a mostly blue, room-size, circular rug that graced the living-room floor of her home.

 

            Out of a few scraps, she made an extra, smaller one, and Joy had it in her home, right in front of the fireplace. That home was recently decimated by a flood, however. All Joy's possessions were thrown out or put into storage; she doesn't even know yet if the rug still exists. Even though its monetary value is nil, it would mean the world to her to have it back.

 

            But even a rug made by a stranger can have tremendous value. An adventurous friend of mine, Cindy*, was a visitor in Jerusalem years ago. And one day she bought a rug.

 

 

That's Cindy's husband Gary; the rug hangs on a rod above the fireplace.

 

 

 

            She stopped at an antique rug shop in the Old City in search of a tapestry, a showpiece. The Muslim rug merchant brought out the best of his selection. But it wasn't what she was looking for.

 

            She said his black eyes searched for how to make a sale. Suddenly, she found herself saying: "I'm looking for a rug that has holes worn in it and is frayed."

 

            "Why would you want a piece like that?" he asked incredulously.

 

            Cindy, a divorcee, replied: "I want something that is beautiful because of what it represents to me. My life has a number of holes and tattered places. Even the damaged areas which might devalue the rug for another buyer may help to unravel my story for others."

 

            He left the flawless designs he had unfurled across his shop floor and disappeared behind a garish carpet covering a tiny niche carved out of the ancient stone wall.

 

            Soon he emerged with an old, worn, Bedouin rug, resplendent with vegetable dyes of navy blues, crimsons, and camel browns. There were holes and frayed bindings. But the colors remained vibrant and the design was handsome.

 

             "Mumtaz!" ("Excellent!") Cindy exclaimed in Arabic, to the shopkeeper's surprise.

 

            And that's how the old rug came to be displayed in the place of honor in her home.

 

            Yes, there's wisdom and beauty in an old rug. It's right underfoot, right where you need it, so you don't slip and fall. It humbly holds us up and wipes away our dirt, year after year. Yet it's little appreciated . . .

 

            . . . unless you know the Weaver . . . the quiet One Who pulls together the threads (and holes) of our lives and makes them beautiful . . . the humble One you can stand on, for eternity. †

 

 

* Cindy is a wonderful Christian writer, and sends out a free weekly essay from Jerusalem, where she lives now. It comes with fascinating photos and stories from the Holy Land. I love receiving it and drew heavily from one of her past dispatches for the account in this story. If you would like to join her list, please contact her at CDaniel997@aol.com