Owen's Blanket (Megan)

Owen’s Blanket

“My life is but a weaving, between my God and me.  I cannot choose the colors He weaveth steadily.
Oft’ times He weaveth sorrow; And I in foolish pride, forget He sees the upper and I the underside.
Not ’til the loom is silent and the shuttles cease to fly will God unroll the canvas and reveal the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful in the weaver’s skillful hand as the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned. He knows, He loves, He cares; nothing this truth can dim.  He gives the very best to those
Who leave the choice to Him.” ― Grant Colfax Tullar

Dear Owen,

This is the week when we finally get to meet you.  There is boundless excitement and chaos in our home as we prepare for your arrival, so I’m sneaking away to a quieter place to share with you a bit of what is in my heart and to tell you the beginning of your life’s story… 

Several months ago Grandma came for a visit and gave us your first gift.  It was the softest and most unusual blanket I have ever held – stripes of blue and green and pink and purple that looked a little mixed up and random.  Nothing like the intricate patterns and skillfully coordinated colors Grandma usually chooses for the “prayer afghans” she knits for each of her grandchildren.  Running her hands tenderly across the jumble of colorful rows, Grandma explained that there was a reason why your blanket was lacking symmetry. This blanket represented our family and the rows were for each of our little ones – two pink rows for your sisters, 7 blue and green rows for you and your brothers,  and 4 dark purple rows for your siblings who are in Heaven. Blinking away tears, I realized that, had the pattern of these rows and our children’s lives been left up to me instead of  “the Master Weaver,” this blanket would have ended up much different…  Each of us took a turn hugging “Owen’s blanket” and imagining the day we would wrap it around you.

The morning of your ultrasound, when we found out you were a boy, was a mixture of gratitude that you were growing so healthy and strong,  (a touch of disappointment on the part of your outnumbered sisters), and utter astonishment that we were going to be a family with 7 brothers!   The discussions over your name didn’t last for long because I had already made my choice – Owen Lewis. Owen for John Owen, whose written works have so often nourished my soul,  and Lewis for C.S. Lewis, whose genius and creativity have fed my intellect and imagination.  

 Owen Lewis, your name means noble, renowned warrior.  And while, as your mother, my heart would forever wrap you in a soft blanket of safety and ease, I know that you will face battles.  John Owen wrote, “Many persuasions have I had that I had got the victory and should be delivered, but I am deceived; so that I plainly see, that without some eminent succour and assistance, I am lost… But yet, though this be my state and condition, let the hands that hang down be lifted up, and the feeble knees be strengthened. Behold, the Lord Christ, that hath all fullness of grace in his heart, all fullness of power in his hand, he is able to slay all these his enemies. There is sufficient provision in him for my relief and assistance. He can take my drooping, dying soul and make me more than a conqueror. ‘Why sayest thou, O my soul, My way is hid from the Lord, and my judgment is passed over from my God? Hast thou not known, hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the Lord, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither is weary? there is no searching of his understanding. He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength. Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall: but they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; they shall walk, and not faint,’” Isa. xl. 27–31.

Little Owen, in the words of C.S. Lewis, you are “…not metaphorically but in very truth,  a Divine work of art, something that God is making, and therefore something with which He will not be satisfied until it has a certain character…Over the great picture of [your] life—[you are] the work which [the Great Artist] loves, though in a different fashion, as intensely as… a mother a child—he will take endless trouble...”  (The Problem of Pain).  

Your little kicks are becoming stronger and more persistent as you prepare to leave the safety of my womb and join this family who loves you more than words can express.  We thank God that we can be part of the life He has planned for you.  

For you formed my inward parts;  you knitted me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.  Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well. My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret,  intricately woven in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.  (Psalm 139:13-16)

With All of My Love,

Mom