I AM A TOWEL

(Authors note:  This story was originally written as an English assignment.  It was later published under the sub-title, "When You're Ready to Give Up Hope," on page eight of Volume Eight Number Three, July - September 1994 issue of 'Action Africa,' a publication of the Africa Evangelical Fellowship, 881 Maxted Crescent, Milton, Ontario, Canada L9T 4E2)

I Am A Towel

Written by Beverly Campbell

            Once upon a time, I was a rug.  A small insignificant floor covering, occupying one of the many corridors of life (a very distant corridor I might add).  Very few of the billions of people in existence ever traveled in my direction.  Of the few that did, some avoided me at all cost, others casually stepped around, or over me.  And then there were those who used me.  Of the latter most didn't bother me.  But the ones that chose to wipe their muddy shoes or boots on me, well all I can say is; it hurt!

            After a while, it seemed to me that the ones with muddy feet came more and more often.  There was nothing I could do to stop the barrage of oncoming attacks.  My fibers were so soiled with filth; I despaired of them ever coming clean.  Some of my threads had torn in places and still others were so worn they were almost transparent.  At a distance, I could hide my disheveled appearance from passing travelers, only to be discovered as they came closer.  As a result of this humiliation, I began to pray incessantly for my own demise.

            Impatient for the end to come, I began searching for a method by which I could bring about this effect more quickly.  It was through this searching that I came to the conclusion that the shredder was my only hope.  How to get there was an entirely different problem.  What could I do that would be bad enough to make them discard me?  It became apparent to me, that to be declared a safety hazard was the avenue to take.  The thought of harming another being intentionally was in direct violation of my motherly conscience.  Unfortunately, in this distraught state of mind I was capable of almost anything.

            So with my intentions before me, I awaited the first wayfarer who would be unfortunate enough to trip over my carefully frayed edges.  It wasn’t long before I heard someone approaching.  As his face came into view above me, I suddenly found myself regretting the evil deed I had plotted. 

            Suddenly, as if he understood everything I had been thinking, he reached down and tenderly raised me from the floor.  His hands were kind and gentle and I knew that he truly cared about me, and who and what I was.

            He took me to a special place where I had never been before.  Once there he set to work.  First, he pulled apart my fibers, separating the good from the bad and trimming those that had frayed.  In this way he rid me of my unworkable strands.  Then he immersed me in water and bleached me whiter than snow.  When I was dry, he placed me on his weaver and ever so gently began merging my fibers once again.  Every now and then he would add a new one of his own.

            As I gradually became stronger, he began to work even harder, but always diligently and with purpose.  At long last I had been fully remade, but I was no longer a rug.  Now I was a towel, a snow white towel with gold and silver threads at my borders.  Although I still consisted of the same fires, I was a brand new creation.

            As if my joy were not enough at my new life, the weaver hung me in a place of honor above a pitcher and bowl.  I would be used to dry the faces, hands and feet of the rich and poor alike.  Even though I was still in a position of service, I didn’t mind this time, because I knew that the weaver would always be there to clean me when I needed it.  I remember looking at my reflection in the shiny water beneath me and thinking how beautifully he had finished me.  Little did I know that the work was far from completed. 

            A few weeks later, after I had become used to my new role, he took me down from my place.  I was hurt and confused, when he pierced me through with a long silver needle.  I couldn’t understand why he was doing this to me.  As I watched the steely rod pull away, I noticed the trail of brightly colored cotton that followed behind it.  With each stitch the weaver made, the cotton was left behind to mark its progress.

Every now and then the weaver returns to add another stitch or two of one hue or another.  As I examine the placement and color of each thread left behind, their importance becomes clearer.  Each one is needed to bring the developing picture closer to the weaver’s own likeness.  One day when he is finished he will present me to his master, whole and without blemish.

Not quite the End.

“I Am A Towel” © Beverly Campbell, September 1994