I almost always wear green—spring green. Ask anyone who knows me. But I decided to wear something different to church one day. Black pants, a short-sleeved black shirt, and a hand-crocheted gold tunic—lacy, and lightly sequined.

 I’d bought the top for my daughter at our favourite thrift store.  “Hey, Amanda, I found you a really neat top,” I said, when I saw her next. “Look at this. Value Village, fifteen bucks.”

 She watched me take it from the bag. “Hmmmm, nice! But Mom, that’s far more your style. I think you should keep it.”

 She was right—I did like the top. It had pizzazz. A bit of bling—something I could use. At her insistence, I tucked it away, but wondered when I’d wear it.

 I knew the answer on the Sunday I didn’t feel like wearing green, when my hand fell on its nubby gold folds in my dresser drawer.

 “Nice,” the Preacher offered. I thought so myself.

 When we arrived at church, our grandbeans ran to meet us. Twenty-two month old Dinah Jane burrowed into my hug, threading her tiny fingers through the lacey openings in my top. “Pitty,” she said.

 But then the two eldest offered their opinions, and everything went downhill from there.

 “Nana.” Three-year-old Tabatha inspected me with judicial eye, “Nana, you have holes in your shirt.”

 Benjamin, four, touched the gold threads with something akin to awe, but said, “Nana, you have on two shirts. Why did you put on that shirt with holes?”

 I tried to keep back my smiles at their innocent fashion appraisal. “Well….the black one is for function, and the gold one is…just for pretty,” I said.

 “Pitty,” said Dinah Jane, petting my arm.

 “Gold is not my favourite color,” Benjamin decided, finally. “It should be brown. And there are too many holes. They both should be for function.”

 “Pitty!” Dinah Jane repeated, still entranced.

 Tabatha and Benjamin worried about my gold top during church. They worried about it walking home. They even worried about it at my house, all afternoon. Why did I buy it? Where did I buy it? Who made it? Why did it have sequins on it? And WHY did it have SO MANY holes—were they there when I bought it?

 On their way out my door to go back home, one of the beans, in decisive voice, delivered a final judgment on my gold tunic. “Nana, that shirt has too many holes. You should fix it.”

 My beautiful top. Just my tiniest grandbean noticed how pretty it was. Her older siblings focused instead on its lack.

 I’m guilty of that too, I’ve realized since. Using threads of every hue, God weaves exquisite patterns into my days. Instead of admiring them, I focus on the holes, unwilling to believe he can use them to make the design of my life even more beautiful.

 Train us all, Lord, to trust your pattern…especially when all we see is holes.