|I grasp the wreath between my knees and manhandle the vine into place.|
As I stood in the middle of about seven long, sinuous vines massed together, working out the trailing ends of the one I wanted, pulling, yanking, untwining, I was struck by the developing metaphor in my hands. Vines are wooden serpents, and such is sin and the sinner -- twisted and nearly inextricable from the sins and sinners around him, bound by it. The little twirly tendrils are the prettiest part of the vine, the thing that will make the wreath beautiful, but when the vines are a mass of tangled sin those tendrils are the problem. How many times do a person's best traits (beauty, talent, personality, wealth) become the gateway into their besetting sins? How often did I break those lovely tendrils off in my exasperation? They were sacrificed so I could get that one vine free from its entanglement with its fellows.
Maggie gives you some sense of its size, which is 21" across. The larger the wreath, the more difficult the work.