The Weaving
 
My life is but a weaving, between my God and me;
 I do not chose the colors, He worketh steadily.
 Oft times He weaveth sorrow, and I in foolish pride
 Forget He sees the upper, and I the under side.
 Not til the loom is silent, and shuttles cease to fly
 Will God unroll the canvas and explain the reason why
 The dark threads are as needful in the skillful Weaver’s hand
 As threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned.
 
–Anonymous
You surrended to the one who lovely created you and will always take care of you.  We love you very much.