The Mantle (part 3)

So the cape became my world; and it sang to me a patchwork melody.
First, the patch of origin sang in solo.

I was the first;
before me
no one needed such a covering.
I looked upon Adam in his glory;
I ran alongside him crost garden vistas,
legs lost in those mists that rose from the earth.
I was the deer that pants beside still waters
in the days before he knew Eve,
in the days before they knew shame.
When the Master Designer took my life to cover that shame,
Adam ran his hands over my silky hide, even as it hung
from his own shoulders,
smoothed my hide and ceased to wonder
what this thing--death--must mean.
He felt no quiver of life, only supple sacrifice.
And he knew.
So though covered, he dredged the depths of this newer shame,
but shame with a purpose and a hope...
and the cape was begun.

A second patch sang out, a harmony of color...and of blood,
the swatch of a larger coat, fashioned to favor
one named Joseph,
(or "Jehovah has added"
ah, but added what?)
a swatch-song given to hide a hatred,
for this one was hated by his father's other sons.
"What is our future as long as you are around?" they reasoned.
"Surely with your light extinguished,
our father will cease to be dazzled
will see us again.
Bless us, too, Father!" they cry,
without considering the brackish waters
of their own baptisms.
Yes, a second patch sang out, a harmony of color...and of blood.
For years, the father ran his hand over the colors matted,
stiff with dried blood.
For years he thought the blood his son's.
But in truth, the blood of a kid, a drenching to hide the pride of the usurper.
But the lie does not prevail, nor the strength of the wicked.
The life that wore the cloak--not lost, but growing stronger,
arranging opportunity for redemptions to be offered,
and able to sustain in the day of need.

Then a third patch sang a strain of variation,
a phrase of diverse colors,
and ambition.
A greedy mother
of an evil warrior,
sitting at her window
pondering her son's exploits.
"Have they even now divided spoils?"
(She thinks surely yes.)
"Does he even now
bear the cloak of his prey,
diverse colors,
the envy of any would-be conqueror?"
She sits at home, at peace
and gleeful
there among her handmaidens.
Was that cloak-dream sufficient solace, Mother?
For your son fell in battle
as your counterpart, Deborah,
(a mother in Israel)
stood tall on Tel Megiddo,
singing her victory songs alongside the warriors.

One patch stitched for foolish self-will,
two more for pride and jealousy.
Though supple and beautiful,
how much they chafe the heart of flesh.

Sadly, one more in this cluster of color,
even here no rainbow-promise rides the colors.
No, they adorn an enemy lusting
and impatient for his gain.
Tamar, young and beautiful,
draped in the diverse colors
of the virgin daughter
of a favored king.
Why does she cook her brother meat?
A gift of service, a moment of trust, a voice of reason.
But in his heart, the dark glow of false need,
so a contrived arrangement
steals her chastity, throws her away.
She rent the cloak and dusted it with ash,
(love and compassion burned to hopelessness
make for a filmy cover.)
Such is her swatch's song.

Patches of pride stitched to patches of sacrifice.
What will be next?

A child's lullaby, this small patch sings hauntingly.
A woman longs for a son, many years.
A woman longs for a son, in the presence of so many
gloating mothers.
At last, her hope is realized.
But she has made a promise.
A covenant with God that will not be broken.
Young Samuel, her son, will live
and grow to manhood in the Lord's house,
not her own.
A cloak is carefully made, and made.
Hannah's own hands doing the artful work
As she sews, she prays,
(so many ways of constructing his covering.)

One small joy:
Every year she sees him, once.
Every year a new coat given,
and ever bigger is the labor of weaving, sewing--
more fabric needed,
more prayer, too,
prayer to fight that bitter clutch in her breast,
as his childhood flows away,
as her decision to give becomes more fossilized.
Sacrifice and resignation;
things done that can't be undone,
things good, but painful;
things misunderstood...
She lays awake at night, and wonders about his dreams,
(wishing she could comfort him in the dark)
She wonders if he will ever really understand
this strange covenant she made with God;
trusting God's wisdom, but
wishing it could have been different
anyway.


I drew a ragged breath at the song of that fuzzy little patch.
"No more for now," I cried out. "Little wonder this part is the lining. Who can bear to see, hear so much of it at one time!"
Then voices hushed, so that only one remained
--the voice of the Giver--
Who whispered through the opening, "Do not fear.
"But rest a while, and know
some patches sing songs glorious.
And you will hear them in the land of the living."