Before we start… A Note on These Parables
This is part of the Screen Door Series.
The Cult of Brighter Days is a gloriously mismatched congregation—atheists, pagans, Buddhists, progressive Christians, cosmic agnostics, and at least one guy who swears he channels divine wisdom from raccoons.
We don’t agree on God, the afterlife, or whether pineapple belongs on metaphysical pizza. What unites us isn’t belief—it’s the shared ritual of wrestling with meaning, absurdity, and each other’s typos.
These parables are personal dispatches from inside our various reality tunnels—each one shaped by a unique screen door. Some are clear. Some are stained glass. A few are barely hanging on with duct tape and spite. But all are looking out onto the same weird lawn: Abiscoridism—a philosophy of paradox, kindness, chaos, and the occasional divine fart joke.
This isn’t a manual. It’s a potluck.
Don’t look for the one true recipe—just bring something weird and honest to the table.
NOW BACK TO THE STORY…
There was once a great Weaver who crafted tapestries so intricate that no one could see the full design. The Weaver worked in a hidden room, beyond the sight of any living being. Yet the evidence of their craft was everywhere—woven into the very fabric of life.
The villagers often debated the Weaver’s existence.
Some said, “There is no Weaver. The threads appear by chance. The patterns are random.”
They saw only loose threads, frayed edges, and tangled knots.
Others insisted, “The Weaver follows a rigid pattern. Every stitch is predetermined.”
To them, the tapestry was already complete—unchanging and unquestionable.
A few claimed, “The Weaver works only for a chosen few. The rest are scraps on the floor.”
They professed understanding of the entire design, though they rarely examined it closely.
But there were also those who approached the tapestry with wonder.
They traced the threads with reverence, noticing how they intertwined—pain and joy, chaos and order, love and loss—all part of something greater than themselves. They didn’t always understand the Weaver’s methods, but they saw beauty in the weaving.
One day, a child asked, “If the Weaver is hidden, how do we know they exist?”
An old woman, who had spent her life mending torn cloth and stitching together broken things, smiled. She pointed to the tapestry and said,
“Because the threads hold together.”
The child frowned. “But there are knots. And loose ends.”
The woman nodded. “Yes. And that’s how we know the Weaver is still at work.”
Some walked away, insisting the tapestry wove itself.
Others clung to their patterns, never questioning the stitch.
But a few stayed behind—watching, wondering, and joining in the work.
They mended. They wove. They created beauty where they could.
For they understood: to seek the Weaver is not to find every answer,
but to be part of the weaving itself.
