The Weaver’s Daughter and the Thread
Not so long ago, in a land not so far away, there lived a Master Weaver, his lovely wife, and their beautiful daughter, Philothea. The Weaver was known through all the land for creating the most magnificent tapestries. He spent hours and hours on each and every creation, carefully and patiently weaving every thread into its proper place. When asked what made his tapestries so wonderful, he would humbly reply, “It’s all in the thread, my dear.”
One fine spring day, as the birds chirped good morning and the dew glistened on the grass, Philothea gathered a bouquet of delicate flowers to bring to her father in his workshop. Visiting Father in his workshop was one of her favorite activities. She loved to see the careful attention he paid to each part of the weaving process. On this day, she entered to find him preparing the thread for a new tapestry. The preparation of the thread was Philothea’s favorite part of the weaving process. It was a wonder to watch Father cut and dye each thread, measuring, cutting and twirling them in his hand, one by one, with gentleness and precision.
The Weaver smiled as he heard the door creak open and turned to see his daughter enter. She ran to him and hugged him, allowing herself to be surrounded by his strong arms. To her, he smelled of fresh spring air and cotton. She sighed as they released from the embrace and presented her bouquet to her father. He took the flowers, breathed in their fresh scent and said, “Thank you, Philothea, I have just the place for these.” He placed the flowers in a vase next to him and turned to continue his work.
“Father,” Philothea said, “Can I help today?”
The Weaver smiled again. “Of course, my dear! I was hoping you would ask. I have just the job for you. It’s a very special job and I know you are ready for it.”
Philothea wriggled with joy. “Oh, Father, what is it, what is it?”
“Well,” he said, “I need someone to take care of a very special thread for this tapestry until I am ready to weave it into the work. Do you think you can watch over this for me?” He showed her a beautiful purple thread as he spoke and then waited for her response.
“Yes, Father!” Philothea exclaimed, “I will take great care of this thread! I promise to bring it back to you in perfect condition when it is time!”
The Weaver nodded and placed the thread in his little one’s hands. She held it gently, her eyes growing wide and her smile growing wider yet. She felt she had never held a more precious item and she wished with all her heart to do her job well and care for the thread. Her father handed her a small leather pouch in which to keep the thread and taught her how to wind it in such a way so as to insure it would not get tangled or knotted. With the thread tucked safely in the pouch, and the pouch safely in her dress pocket, Philothea happily kissed her father on the cheek and ran off to play and explore.
As she wandered the countryside, her heart and body felt light and full of energy. She could hardly believe that such a treasure had been entrusted to her care. Many times, she stopped to pat her pocket to feel the pouch inside. Each time she touched the package, she felt new energy and life well up inside her heart. At lunch she showed her mother the precious treasure she carried.
“My, your father certainly loves you to share such a treasure!” exclaimed her mother.
“I know!” replied Philothea, “I never imagined he would trust me with a thread for one of his tapestries! I so want to care for it properly! I can’t wait to see the place it will have in the tapestry!”
Every day, Philothea kept the pouch safe and secure, tucked away in her pocket. She couldn’t help but share the news of her treasure with her friends and everyone she met.
Not long after she was given the thread, she was sharing the story with her friend, Lucy, who nearly exploded with glee at such a happening. She asked immediately to see the thread, and although Philothea was nervous to risk anything happening to the thread, the joy of sharing the gift was too much and so, she slowly pulled the pouch from her dress pocket.
“I want to see it all! Oh, please, please, Philothea, take out the thread and show me!” Lucy cried pleadingly.
Philothea hesitated. She knew her job was to care for the thread, but she also knew that good gifts are meant to be shared, just as her father shared his tapestries with all the world. Finally, she unfolded the top of the pouch and removed the delicate thread.
As soon as it was revealed, Lucy could not contain her excitement any longer. She reached out and grabbed the thread, holding it close to her face. Philothea was not quick enough to stop her friend and the thread was in Lucy’s hands before she could say a word.
“Oh, how lovely!” Lucy cried. “I wish I had a thread of my own just like this one!”
Lucy gathered the thread in her hands and held it to her heart.
At the same time, Philothea’s heart sank like a stone, right down to the bottom of her stomach. She knew without looking that the thread was no longer smooth and unknotted. Lucy had meant well, but a thread so delicate could not be handled in such a way without becoming knotted and bent.
As Lucy bubbled with joy, Philothea became more and more disheartened. She could barely think about what her father would say and did not want to imagine the look he would have when she returned the thread to his care. Her heart continued to sink, lower and lower still.
After a few agonizing minutes, Lucy relinquished her grip on the thread and slowly handed it back to Philothea.
“What a lovely thread!” Lucy said. “But it’s a shame it’s so delicate. It got knotted up so easily! I can’t imagine why your Father would use such a thread for such important work.”
Philothea looked sadly down at the knotted thread in her hands. It was still the same lovely shade of purple and it still felt as soft and smooth as a lamb’s ear, but its appearance was almost marred beyond recognition. The thread she held in her hands was most definitely not the same perfect thread with which she had been entrusted just days ago.
With sadness in her eyes and a heaviness in her heart, Philothea tucked the knotted thread back into her pouch and began to walk home. All she could think about was the tangled thread and the look of disappointment she expected to see on Father’s face when she showed him what was inside the pouch.
When she arrived home, Father was still in his workshop and she could see through the window that Mother was in the kitchen. Philothea tried to sneak past Mother into her bedroom, but Mother always seemed to sense her presence. As soon as she took a step into the house, Mother called to her, “Welcome home, Philothea. How was your time with Lucy today?”
Philothea did not know what to say. She wanted to tell Mother what had happened, but she couldn’t get her mouth to work properly. When she did speak, she found herself saying, “It didn’t go as I expected. I’m just going to rest in my room for a while.” Philothea knew Mother could tell something was wrong, but instead of pressing her, Mother looked at her kindly and said, “Well, little one, when you are ready to share, I am here to listen. Go, rest.” With that, Mother crossed the kitchen and gave Philothea a hug and kiss. Despite the heaviness in her heart, Philothea leaned in and allowed herself to be hugged. Even if just for a moment, she felt safe and loved again.
When she arrived in her room, Philothea dropped onto her bed and sat there thinking for a long time. At last, she steeled her nerves, reached into her dress pocket and pulled out the tangled thread. She sat there, frozen, staring at the knotted mess in her hands, feeling as if it did not even come close to the knots in her heart and stomach.
Suddenly, she had an idea! Maybe, she thought to herself, I can just untangle the thread! And then Father would never have to know about any of this! Why didn’t I think of this before?!
With a newfound confidence, Philothea took an end of the thread in each hand and pulled, hoping to untie the knots, as a shoe is untied easily by pulling the end of the string. But, much to her dismay, the harder she pulled, the worse the knots became! They looked smaller, yes, but they refused to come out and they looked more solid and stuck than ever before.
Oh, no! She said to herself, I haven’t made it better, I’ve made it worse!
At long last, Philothea felt her heart give up as tears ran down her face. Her body trembled as she began to sob, sinking deeper into the bed and deeper into her own misery. There was nothing she could do. She knew she had ruined the thread, ruined the tapestry, and worse yet, let down Father. He had chosen her to keep this thread safe and protected. This was one of his most precious treasures and she had failed to follow his command. She could hardly bear to think about what would come next for her.
As the tears began to run dry, her body seeming to be unable to cry any longer, her breathing began to slow and she heard a soft knock on her door. Quickly she tried to hide the mess of the string and the mess of her tear-streaked face, but Mother was already entering. Mother looked at Philothea and then down at the knotted thread in her hands. Philothea looked down, dreading what she knew would come next. Slowly Mother walked across the room, sat down on the bed next to Philothea and wrapped her soft, gentle arms around her daughter. Philothea looked up into her mother’s face and saw the kindness in her eyes. Although she had thought she was out of tears, they came again, hot and fast and she leaned into her Mother and sobbed.
When she was out of tears again, Mother gently lifted Philothea’s face and said, “We must go to Father now. Come, follow me.”
Mother took Philothea’s hand in one of hers, picked up the knotted thread in the other, and together they walked across the yard to Father’s workshop.
Mother stopped at the door. She placed the knotted thread in Philothea’s hand and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Trust him, little one. He is your father and he loves you. No matter what happens.”
Philothea hugged Mother and thanked her. Then she turned towards the door, placed her hand on the knob and turned it.
When she entered, Philothea saw Father sitting at the loom. He had heard the door open, and stopped his work to turn and see who had entered. His face brightened when he saw Philothea, but this only made her heart sink lower. Mother’s kindness had given her the courage to enter the workshop, but now that courage seemed to be waning as she approached Father and the moment of truth.
Father could tell at once something was wrong. He softened his face, opened his arms and said, “Oh, my dear, what is wrong? Come, let me hold you.”
Philothea ran to her father’s arms and collapsed in his strong embrace. She rested there for a long time before she was able to lift her face to look at him. Just like Mother, she found his eyes to be kind and gentle. Encouraged, she pulled back, just a little, and brought her clenched fist to the front. Slowly, she uncurled her fingers and showed him the knotted thread. As she did so, she closed her eyes and winced, preparing for the harshness and disappointment she had dreaded from the moment Lucy grabbed the thread from her hands.
“I am so sorry, Father,” Philothea cried. Suddenly, the words poured from her heart, “I didn’t follow your directions. I didn’t protect the thread. And now I’ve messed up everything. I ruined it all. I am so sorry! Please, please help me.I tried to fix it. I tried to make it better! But it didn’t work! I only made it worse! I have made a mess of the beautiful thread you gave me! Please, help me, Father!”
And she collapsed again into his arms.
She felt him hold her tighter and as he did so, the fear and pain of the day seemed to slowly be ebbing away.
After a long time, they again looked into each other’s eyes.
“My dear,” Father began slowly and surely. “I love you. Do you know that?”
“Yes, Father,” Philothea said softly.
“I am sad that this happened. You know how important this thread is to my work.”
Philothea’s whole body sank at these words.
Father continued, “I also know this is the risk we take when we love something so dearly. I know your heart, dear one. I know you wanted to follow my instructions. It is good that you wanted to share the joy of this gift. You did nothing wrong in wanting to give joy to another. We cannot know how others will respond to our gifts, or how they will treat them.”
At this, Philothea sighed with relief and felt some of the weight lift from her shoulders.
“I am sad about this, yes,” Father said, “But, I am sadder still that you did not come to me at once. I am sad because I love you and I want to be there for you when you are in pain and in trouble. This thread is important to me, but you are what is truly precious. You are my real treasure, my dear. The thread is knotted and tangled for sure, but all is not lost. I know just what to do. ” He hugged her again and whispered in her ear, “Philothea, thank you for coming to me. I love you. Let’s work on this together.”
Philothea squeezed Father harder and harder until all the fear was gone.
Then she looked up again and said, “I love you, too, Father.”
Father slowly took the thread from her small, clumsy hands and held it steadily in his big, strong ones. The thread looked small in his hands.
“See,” he said as he started to untangle the knots, “the first step here is to loosen the knot, slowly and gently. The thread needs a gentle touch.” Philothea stared in amazement as his deft hands undid every knot and smoothed the thread again.
When he was finished, he turned to her and offered her the thread. She hesitated, “What? You want me to hold it again? But I almost ruined it before!”
“I trust you,” Father said.
Philothea took the thread, wound it as he had shown her in the beginning and placed it in the pouch.
“Stay,” Father said, “I will need your thread soon.”
For the first time, Philothea looked at the tapestry he was creating. To her surprise, she saw it was a portrait of their family! There was Father on the left, tall and strong, with his arm around Mother on the right. In the middle in front of them both stood Philothea herself. She was surrounded by the arms of her Father and Mother, right where she belonged.
The Beginning…
About the author:
Stephanie is a wife and mother of three boys. She and her family live in Pennsylvania. Her husband works for their local parish and she homeschools their boys. According to her eight year old, she enjoys reading, napping and watching The Chosen.
About the Artist:
Sarah Gacka is a college student majoring in Theology, studying for her degree online from her home in Pennsylvania. When she is not working at her job as an elementary teaching assistant, she can be found listening and singing along to soothing music, consuming copious amounts of tea, sketching God's creation and cuddling any cat that comes her way.
Reflection Questions for Small Groups or Individuals
How does this story remind you of your parents, or the ideal parent?
If you have kids, and have read this to them, hen what was their reaction?
How does the artwork resonate with you?