I have no answers to your questions in http://www.fivedoves.com/letters/aug2012/stanf814.htm

but a little poem I carried in my wallet for many years and then lost, suddenly came to mind:

 

My life is but a weaving

Between my God and me

 

I may but see the colors

He worketh steadily

 

Full oft He weaved trouble

And I in foolish pride

 

Forget He sees the upper

And I the under side

 

 

God Bless

Marie Komar