The woman sat two rows in front of me. As we listened to the organ prelude accompanied by the shuffling feet of people filing in for the service, I admired the contrast of her snowy white hair against the verdant hue of her forest green dress.
Even from that distance, the white piece of thread stood out. It was clearly one of those errant threads that stick to clothes, especially when winter’s dry air creates extra static electricity.
This thread looked unusually coarse, the better able to cling tauntingly out of her sight yet in full view from the back pews. It marred the petite stretch of her back with a squiggly pattern from shoulder seam to the nubs of her backbone.
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Hmm, a social dilemma. Does one approach and tell the stranger about the thread? Reach over and pluck it off, hoping not to startle? Say nothing, because it really doesn’t matter? Except perhaps it might matter to a woman who obviously takes pride in her appearance?
It reminded me of the time I wore a new dress to the office. It was a two-piece affair; a dress with a matching jacket. It’s best attribute was the fact that I paid half-price at a sale, and I do love a good bargain.
Frugality and fashion don’t always mesh, so I was pleased when several co-workers asked me if the dress was new and extended their compliments.
That night, when I changed into evening chore clothes, I discovered a price tag and vivid pink sale sticker attached to the back of the collar. I’d removed the tags from the dress, not realizing there was a second set on the jacket.
So much for vanity, though I did wonder what mirth my co-workers had taken at my expense.
But now, sitting in church, I empathized with their possible uncertainty in broaching the subject. I decided to tell the snowy-haired woman about her passenger thread immediately after the service.
Another woman beat me to it. As the recessional played, she reached over and plucked the thread.
It didn’t come free. She pulled harder. The thread grew longer. The woman kept pulling. The thread kept coming.
Soon she was pulling it hand over hand, her cheeks red and her mind no doubt envisioning, as mine was, entire seams unravelling and the dress falling away in the middle of the sanctuary.
Finally, the snowy-haired woman turned.
“I see you found my thread,” she said to the embarrassed good Samaritan. “Somebody always does. I find it an excellent way to meet people. How do you do?”
