Tie Dye

Tie dying a shirt isn't a one step deal.  It's a process.

The child begins this process with a white shirt.  Clean.  New.  Ready to be splattered by inspiration.

But then it gets crumpled up.  The child rolls it and folds it.  At first this is done in a neat and orderly swirling process.  But when it comes time to add the rubber bands, somehow the shirt becomes crinkled.  The sleeves get shoved into awkward nooks in the fabric.  And the whole thing sort of takes on a bent curve because the rubber bands are pulling it in too tight.

It is just too tight.  It's suffocating the poor material.  And the chains aren't letting go anytime soon.

Then the shirt is SPLATTERED with dye.  Yellow.  Red.  Blue.  The child attempts to add the colors with a plan in mind:  one in each "triangle" that the rubber bands have formed.  But the triangles are being pulled tighter and tighter into the center and the colors are meshing in weird places.  Parts of the shirt look black from spots where all of the three primary colors have mixed together.  Not bright and beautiful.  Just black.  Dark with use.  Dark with experience.  Dark with a past that seems impossible to wash away.

I shouldn't have put that red in that corner.  I should have saved it for the sleeve that's still looking pretty bland.  Cursing herself for adding color when it already looked good.  I should have stopped when it seemed ready.  An artist's worst nightmare.

Cursing herself for running out of dye to finish the sleeves.  I didn't have enough time.  I didn't have enough resources.  And now it's too late.  The red is gone.

What the child didn't know was that her Father was monitoring her every move.  He knew about the chains she put on the shirt.  He knew about the spots where too much color--too many experiences--were mushed into the fabric.

He knew that regardless of the mess she made out of it, He could work with whatever sloppy pile of cotton she handed Him.  And He would use the colors she chose and the patterns of rubber bands she tied it with to change it into a masterpiece.

The next step in the process is that the black, wet, sloppy mess must sit for 24 hours.  It can't touch anything around it because the dye will rub off and infect it's environment.  Like a disease.  So it sits.  Alone.  Soaking wet in an old Target bag, waiting for the arbitrary time period to be over.  The Father was in charge of how long it had to sit and wait.  He had to keep telling His daughter that it wasn't time yet, even though she was so jumpy to just get going.  The child waits for her Father to nod and say, "It is time."

That's when the Father picks up the dirty pile and runs it under cold water.  He takes off the rubber bands, setting the shirt free from its chains.  He rinses it as He watches the excess dye run down the drain.  Doing away with the areas that had those dark color vortexes.  Doing away with the areas that were soiled with the wrong choices.

And when it comes out of the wash it's bright.  And perfect.  It retains just the right amount of each color because it was able to sit for those precious 24 hours

Waiting on Him in periods of darkness and uncertainty is frustrating.  Every minute passes slower than the last.

The shirt had waited for so long in those chains.  It had waited for so long in those puddles of dark dye.  It had waited for so long wondering, "When will the Father release me from this mess?  Where are You in all of this?  Please rescue me."

And then a soft whimper, "Please rescue me even though I don't deserve it."

And when the Father finishes washing the excess dye down the drain He smiles and says,

"You are perfect because I broke your chains and washed you clean.  You are perfect because I released you from the darkness after the appropriate amount of time."

He pulls it over His daughter's head and whispers, "You are perfect because you are Mine."