I was watching a spider build a web the other day. Actually, I didn’t know what he was doing at first. The sun was setting, the lighting wasn’t so good, and the little guy was dancing around in mid-air, doing something between a two-step and an I-might-have-had-a-little-too-much-to-drink ditty. I couldn’t figure out if I should laugh or call 9-1-1.
Then I moved my point of view. Tipped my head until I could see infinitesimally slender white strands woven round and round. A spider’s web. He’d gotten the frame up and ready, but now he was putting up the walls. Two hops forward, one leg to the side to measure, and a little skitter to the inside. Clockwise. Do spiders always build their webs clockwise? Over and over, around and around. Building his web.
Of course, if I looked at it the wrong way, I still couldn’t see the infinitesimally slender strands, and he still looked a little tipsy. Even though I knew differently. But if I moved my position, the picture was perfectly clear.
It was fascinating, really. Watching this tiny pale builder work so diligently on a house I knew was only going to last till daybreak. If even that. Knowing that it was going to the wind - Look out if it rains! - and he was going to have to start the whole thing over again tomorrow. If it were me, I’d sit down and cry. He didn’t seem to care. He put the same care and precision into each strand today as he did yesterday. And the day before that. On and on, web after web. Cautiously building as though it’s going to last forever.
The same way God paints a sunrise. Or builds a snowflake. Or throws a lightning bolt. Or teaches a human, finite heart.
