Ever Heard of Hair Wreaths Before?

A couple weeks ago, our home school group visited the Colorado Springs Pioneer Museum which is right downtown. 

We'd picked up Aunt Irina so she could enjoy visiting with us a bit of our western heritage.

This is one of the few free places to visit around here!

Here is a statue of Katherine Lee Bates, the author of "America the Beautiful."

In the front room where we entered,something caught my eye.
Not because it was all that beautiful or amazing, but because it was unusual.

It was called a hair wreath.

This intricate wreath behind this glass is made of human hair!
If you are like me, you never heard of a hair wreath before.

But three days later, a friend was calling me, and she was going through some old things from deceased relatives, and found things she thought were valuable including a "hair wreath."

She wondered if I had ever heard of a hair wreath before.

Boy was I glad I had just visited this museum and increased my wondrous store of knowledge so I could say yes, I had just seen a couple at the museum!

If you are like me, you aren't all that excited about a hair wreath, either.
But there were plaques on the wall describing the "elaborate design of flowers, leaves, and stems." There was even an actual bird beak in one wreath.
And the names of the women who contributed either craft or hair were inscribed on the plaques.

 But all I could think about was that verse where Jesus said,

"Even the very hairs of your head are all numbered."

I don't think much of the hairs that fall out of my head, (other than to bewail the drastic numbers that are falling lately), do you?

They aren't worth much. I scrape them out of my hair brush and dangle them into the waste basket and try to keep the last stray one from sticking to my rough fingers. 

Hard to believe we have a God that actually knows how many hairs I just dropped into the wastebasket this morning, and how many are left on my head.

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Is it sometimes hard to fathom a heavenly Father that knows and cares enough
to count hairs
and tears
and weary miles trudged,
instead of sitting like a judge in a courtroom, weighing in on everything you do--or don't do?

A judge who counts misdemeanors and mistakes and miserly meanness and mirages
instead of missing pieces and miseries and moans and miracles and
all the little matters that make up life
and from which we call to Him for His help and wisdom?

John writes that God sent not His Son into the world to condemn the world,
but that the world through Him might be saved.

In that museum, there was a large room dedicated to relics from the days when Colorado Springs was known for its wonderful climate for sufferers from tuberculosis.
Colorado Springs was known as the "City of Sunshine."

Reading that encouraged me, for I often think of how much I miss the dear little violets that I used to love back east, and all the daffodils and spring flowers back there, all that are there because of the rich rains.
But here, there is a wealth of sunshine, and I do so need that, too!
This plaque read, "There is absolutely no need of dying of consumption if one will try the climatic prevention."

Christ did not come to condemn but to save.
And when we are overwhelmed and worried and overworked and perhaps a bit frantic about all the issues we are facing,
and more and more hairs are falling into the wastebasket,
what do we suppose our heavenly Father is counting?

Don't you suppose that He who counts a mother's hairs
dropping into the wastebasket each day,
counts her weary steps and her countless jobs and her fears and worries and frustrations, too?

When the steers get out for the umpteenth time, and the biggest boy goes driving around and can't find them,
so mom and little ones end up driving around, too, and finds those steers, and helps herd them,
and falls in the snow and nearly sprains her ankle,
and then has to deal with a daughter that's fussing about her tummy hurting and then throws up,
and dad is struggling with frazzling work and runs out of diesel all on the same day,

don't you suppose that He who counts a father's hairs
counts the miles in weary moccasins and diesel trucks?

 Don't you suppose that He Who has walked the same weary miles in our moccasins

will care about little you and about little me?

He didn't come to condemn, but to save, and if we will remember that the Father loves to comfort

and knows every detail that concerns us,

we will find strength for another weary mile.