They were beautiful lengths of fabric. Each one carefully patterned, colored, and woven. They were perfect, solitary and in no need of any other help.
In another basket were apples. Each one with superb red and green swirls, each one sweet and crunchy. No defects, no imperfections, perfect just like they were.
Or so they might have thought.
To the fabric came a heavy pair of scissors, slicing and chopping. Within moments the entire length of fabric was reduced to pieces. Short, awkward, triangular, wrinkled pieces. It no longer was perfect on its own. It was ruined, torn and left scattered.
To the apples came a sharp glittering knife, cutting them into small pieces. The delicately colored skin was peeled off and thrown away. All that was left was chunks of bare apple, fast turning brown as time progressed.
All that was left was pieces.
Life's like that. For a time you think you are perfect, completed, a beautiful creation. The life you live in is carefully constructed, colored, and loved. Then along comes something, sickness, death, change. And your life is torn apart. Chopped. Scattered. Sliced. Ruined.
And all that's left are pieces. Tattered shards of no use but to remind you of who you used to be.
But the story for the fabric, and the apples isn't over.
To the fabric came someone, the same someone who had held the cutting scissors. Carefully, with patience and skill, she gathered up the pieces and one by one fit them back together in new ways. From under her hands came a piece of beauty and perfection, far surpassing what the fabric had been before. An entirely new length of fabric, which all the tiny pieces joined to form.
To the apples came a chef. And slowly, and meticulously he formed and mixed and molded. And when he stepped back there, in the place of the broken pieces, was a creation of perfection. Simple, yet beautiful, an object to be enjoyed by many. Every piece of broken apple lending to the perfection of the whole.
Without the scissors the fabric could have never become a quilt. And without the knife the apples could have never become a pie.
Without pain, struggle, change, I will never become who I was meant to be. You can never become who you were meant to be. There will be times that your life may seem ruined. Times when you are left standing surrounded by the broken pieces of your life.
The Master Creator, He who perfectly formed all things, is at work. Carefully, gently, He will reassemble the pieces into something better, something beautiful.
Just wait and see what comes out of the pieces.
**Fine Print: Reposted from Life with Abibliophobia. Photographs and words are not my own.**