Several weeks ago I bought a jigsaw puzzle, not as a way to while away some hours, but as a way to assemble my life, all of its scattered pieces, into a coherent whole. It was to be a sacrament of sorts, a symbolic gesture, to assemble this jigsaw puzzle with clear intention, as if to say to the Creator, ā€œIā€™m here, all hands on deck, ready to get it together!ā€

What I found, of course, is that the putting together of a puzzle, like life itself, appears to take intention and effort, and also something else, an allowance for the pieces to find their places in the big picture. How many times have I stood hunched over the table where the puzzle has rested, moving multiple pieces here and there, unable to find a single one that plops into place, only to come back an hour later, pick up one piece and immediately find its home?

How many times must I be reminded that I am always home, that no matter how scattered my puzzle pieces seem to be, I am always whole, always where I need to be, always in sync with the eternal hands of time?

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