On Weaving and Repentance - COMMITTING - Summary of Carry On, Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life - Book Summary

Summary of Carry On, Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life - Book Summary (2016)

Part II. COMMITTING

Chapter 15. On Weaving and Repentance

Repentance is a fancy word used often in Christian circles. I don’t use fancy religious words, because I don’t think they explain themselves well. Also, fancy language tends to make in people feel more in and out people feel more out, and I don’t think that’s how words are best used. Words are best used to describe specific feelings, ideas, and hearts as clearly as possible—to make the speaker and the listener, or the writer and the reader, feel less alone and more hopeful.

I used to be annoyed and threatened by the word repentance, until I figured out what it really means to me. Repentance is the magical moment when a sliver of light finds its way into a place of darkness in my heart, and I’m able to see clearly how my jerkiness is keeping me from peace and joy in a specific area of my life.

Maya Angelou shined a light into the dark part of my heart where I keep my relationship with my mother-in-law. In her book, Letter to My Daughter, Angelou writes about a dinner party she attended during her first trip to Senegal at the home of a very rich and sophisticated friend. As Angelou explored the decadent home and observed the elegant guests, she noted that they were all carefully stepping around the beautiful, expensive rug in the middle of the floor to avoid dirtying it. She became appalled that her hostess would be so shallow as to value her things above her guests’ comfort. Angelou decided to act; she stepped onto the rug and walked back and forth several times. The guests, who were “bunched up on the sidelines, smiled at her weakly.” Angelou smiled back, proud that through her boldness they might also be “encouraged to admit that rugs were to be walked on.”

She then joined the guests on the sidelines, her head held high. She had done what was right.

A few minutes later, the servants came out and quietly removed the rug from the floor, replacing it with an equally extravagant one. They then proceeded to carefully place the plates, glasses, wine, and bowls of rice and chicken on the new rug. Angelou’s hostess clapped her hands and announced joyfully that they were serving Senegal’s most beloved meal “for our Sister from America, Maya Angelou.” She then asked all the guests to sit. Angelou’s face burned.

She had dragged her dirty shoes all over her gracious hostess’s tablecloth. Angelou concluded her story with this: “In an unfamiliar culture, it is wise to offer no innovations, no suggestions or lessons. The epitome of sophistication is utter simplicity.”

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When Craig and I were first married, I experienced his family as an unfamiliar culture. Communication was different, celebrations were different, mealtimes were different, and expressions of love were different. I found this to be unacceptable. To me, different meant wrong. I became offended and perpetually suspicious. In a million subtle and not-so-subtle ways, I tried to change my in-laws. I suggested new traditions. I offered advice. I found fault with their personalities and marriage and their relationships with their children and grandchildren. I dragged my dirty shoes all over my mother-in-law’s tablecloth. The one she’d spent decades carefully weaving.

I imagine my refusal to accept my mother-in-law hurt her deeply, but she gave Craig and me time and space to work it out on our own. She bowed out. That must have been a hard decision, one I pray I never have to make with my own son. I pray that my future daughter-in-law will be wiser and kinder than I from the start. She probably won’t be, though. She’ll probably be just like me. She’ll want to create her own weaving pattern, which might mean that she’ll need to walk all over mine for a while.

As a young mother and wife, establishing a pattern that suited me was difficult. Learning to weave required all of my attention. I needed time and space to establish my own rhythm and style, and perhaps my rejection of the old patterns was necessary to the discovery of my own.

True repentance is messy, and it takes time, but that sliver of light is worth waiting for. And when it’s real, it sticks. Thank you, Ms. Angelou, for leading me to repentance.

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I’m not big on advice, mainly because most days I learn what an idiot I was yesterday. This is hopeful, because it means I’m moving in the right direction. But it also makes it risky to offer wisdom today. Even so, I feel safe suggesting this:

Mothers-in-law, enjoy watching your daughter-in-law learn to weave. When she makes a mistake, when she drops a stitch, allow her to notice it on her own. Tell her often how beautiful her pattern is. Be kinder than necessary. Bring her some tea. Be simple. Be sophisticated.

And daughters-in-law, notice the beauty of the rug that your mother-in-law spent a lifetime weaving. Remember that her pattern is mostly firmly established—no need to suggest improvements. Be kinder than necessary, being mindful that the piece of art it took her a lifetime to weave—her masterpiece—she gave to you, to keep you warm at night. One day you’ll give your masterpiece away too. Be simple. Be sophisticated.