My Strength & My Shield / psm28:7

15 The Tear

You have to love the feel of a brand new T-shirt. You know... the softness of the brushed cotton. It feels so good. 

That's what I was thinking to myself when I pulled a nice, new T-shirt on over my head after a long day at work. I thought about the color of it too - purple. It really works with my skin tone. 

For me to even think about something looking good on me is an accomplishment in itself. I don't buy myself new clothes very often. I can't afford them, but that's okay. It means I get really good mileage out of what I have. Believe me; I get my money's worth when it comes to clothes! 

It doesn't bother me that my closet is full of old things. Heck, I'm old, so I guess it's okay that my clothes are old too. What's that Dr. Seuss rhyme that my daughter loved so much when she was little? My hat is old, my teeth are gold, I'm havin' a bird I'm holdin'. 

Not exactly how it went, but that's how it went for her, and that's how we'll always remember it. The fact is, even if I could afford to have a closet full of fancy, new things, I'd rather have a brand new $7.99 T-shirt than a $100 dress. Ask anyone who knows me, and they'll tell you that's just me. 

So out the door I go, throwing my purse over my shoulder and just what do you think is staring at me? Skin! My skin - right along the seam of the shoulder. My brand new T-shirt that I just spent $7.99 on has a tear in it! All I wanted was to do the wash and wear thing, and I'm heading to the car, and the wear thing isn't happening so good now because I'm aware that there's a tear in my nice new T. 

My first thought is pretty typical. I don't have time to change, or I'll be late. But as soon as I get home, I'm going to put it back in the plastic bag I brought it home in and take it back to the store and get me another purple T-shirt... one without a tear! After all, I deserve it to be perfect! 

So off I go, stomping my feet and carrying on in my head like a toddler when I back out of the driveway, and it hits me. No, not a car (thankfully), but God, touching my heart and overriding my head in a way that only He can. 

"One of my children made that shirt." 

"Don't try to reason with me, God. I'm having a toddler moment here!" (A nice change from my senior moments, I might add.) 

But for some reason, that doesn't hinder Him one bit. And as always happens when I need a good talking to, His quiet voice instantly captures my heart, and I listen for more, eager to know what I've missed in my rushed state of mind to get to the restaurant where I'm meeting a friend. And the more I listen, the more I understand. Someone... somewhere... made this purple T-shirt of mine. The wheels start turning (on the road and in my head), and I get to wondering about it. 

Who? Was it a child in some third-world country sweat shop, trying to sew as many pieces as she can to earn a little money to take home to her parents who need the money to feed their family? Was it another child, doing the same thing so she can have money to feed her brothers and sisters because they have no parents? A mother perhaps, working long hours in the same sweat shop, hoping she'll make enough money today to feed her children because their father is dead. Could it be a grandmother who took the job to pay for medicine for her ailing husband? Or a grandmother who just wants to eat today? 

Whose tired fingers, slipped? Fouled up? Missed a stitch? Was it the only mistake in hundreds of secure stitches? Who made my T-shirt; the nice new soft one that cost me $7.99? Did they get even one penny of my money? I have to spend more than that for a pound of my favorite Dunkin Donuts coffee that I love so much. Do they even know what coffee tastes like? 

It bugs me all through dinner, and I can't wait to get home. When I do, I race to the bedroom to take off my nice new T-shirt with the tear in the seam along the shoulder. I no longer want to rush back to the store and trade it in for a new one. Instead, I sit down and I find myself in tears for the person who may have been tired, who may have been overworked while sewing it. I look at the label stamped in the back - Made in China. 

I start to pray. I pray for someone in China whoever she might be. And I ask God to bless her with whatever she needs. And I ask God to reveal Himself to her if she doesn't already know Him. I will never know her. I will never know how to help her. I will never be able to share anything with her at all even though she's shared something with me. And what's wrong with me because I can't stop these tears. 

I think I'm going to look for my old sewing kit this weekend - the one my mom gave me when I went off to boot camp in '83. I think I'm going to stitch my nice new purple T-shirt, and I'm going to pray while doing it. I'm going to pray with every stitch for the person who, for a reason known only to God, missed a stitch while sewing my T-shirt that day. 

I don't think I'll ever wear this shirt without saying a prayer for the person that left a tear in it. I wonder about her and about what was going on in her life when the stitch was dropped. 

Maybe there's a reason the spelling is the same. Maybe there was something in her eyes. 

Be wise in the way you act toward outsiders; make the most of every opportunity. (Colossians 4:5)