I watch her from across the room. I’m nearly hypnotized by the movement of her hand. She works from her comfortable arm chair with her feet propped up on an overstuffed footstool, a quilt in the softest hues of baby blue and cream covers her legs as she works on it within the large wooden hoop. Her needle gathers tiny little stiches, a dozen or more of them before she pulls it, tailing its long thread, up and away. I can just barely make out the sound of the quiet whoosh as her nimble fingers guide the needle through the layers of fabric and is pulled with a long length of thread, up and away; and then her needle dips down again to gather up more stitches like long drinks of healing water before pulling up again with that nearly silent whoosh. Again and again and again. It makes me calm, it makes me feel peaceful, it makes me feel protected and loved, like the baby who will soon be wrapped in this exquisite work of art -One more of nearly 500 babies who have been swaddled in the comfort of her loving gifts. I say gifts, because she never sells her quilts but quietly and without ceremony gives them to family, to friends, and to hospitals. She delivers many of these precious comforters, which she tenderly folds with thoughts of love and a heartfelt prayer, to women’s shelters and clinics where many of the babies enter into a cold, uncertain world and leave the clinic surrounded in the love and warmth of one of her quilts rather than wrapped in a newspaper. It seems my sister is unaware of the sense of dignity that envelopes these new mothers who give birth under such trying circumstances; just a frightened young woman on her own until that first cry, and then...she becomes a mother with a helpless and very dependent child. But with just this touch of dignity which very gently sparks a warm glow in her soul, she cradles her baby in the luxury of this unexpected gift of unconditional love and allows herself to dream dreams of hope that she may not have thought possible before.
My thoughts float to my son who used to live and work in Hawaii. His job at a Department store required daily deliveries of a hand truck full of neatly stacked boxes containing chocolate covered macadamia nuts to local office buildings. Each day he’d pass through the loading dock and catch sight of a pair of smudged and worn hiking boots attached to the weary feet of the disheveled transient who slept off his addiction behind the store’s dumpster. Day after day he would see him and worry about him and say a silent prayer for him. One day, near the dumpster he spotted a can of spray paint. He felt compelled to stop and pick it up. He shook it and heard the familiar thump-klink-thump of the beebees inside. And with a quick test-spray on the dumpster he saw the can was filled with shiny, Olympic gold paint. Without hesitation he pointed the tip towards those hiking boots and he didn’t stop spraying until both boots were shiny and golden. Then he tossed the can into the dumpster and walked down the street with a smile on his face as he imagined the surprise the man would find when he finally awoke from his stupor. What he didn’t expect to see though later that night as he glanced out the window from his table at the restaurant was this transient walking down the sidewalk, his matted hair had been combed, his ragged clothes had been buttoned and straightened up and he walked with his head held high, a man with dignity, a man wearing golden boots.
These are gifts, quietly given, that touch people’s lives for good and make them feel unique and cared for like the important person that he or she is.
My musing is interrupted as my sister who has just taken the final stitch, removes the wooden hoop and inspects this completed masterpiece. No two are ever the same, just like each baby that will become heir to their very own keepsake is a person that is a unique masterpiece. This steadfast, reassuring quilt that will be loved and cherished throughout the ups and down of childhood days until it is finally folded and tucked away in a treasure box waiting to swaddle their own new baby years down the road.
One day, several years ago, my sister sat down with a new quilt and took the first stitch. A perfect way to spend her birthday she felt. But the doorbell rang and she sighed, reluctant to break away from the peace that comes with each new creation. But she carefully pulled the fabric from her lap, laid it on the footstool and with the intricate pattern still in her mind she padded to the front door and turned the knob and pulled it open. In the brilliant morning light she was astounded to see her large deck and front yard covered with women holding babies wrapped in her quilts and many children of all ages holding the quilts that they had treasured for years and they were all singing “Happy Birthday to You! Happy Birthday to You”!
These quilts didn’t begin with the thousand tiny hand stitches. First the carefully chosen fabric (several kinds for each quilt) chosen for their hue, their designs and their fabric type all skillfully matched with her masterful eye, are cut into many pieces and then arranged into a pattern, new to each and every quilt; taken to her sewing machine and stitched together, building from the center out. Batting is laid upon a solid piece of coordinated fabric and then topped with the pieced piece; then out comes the ruler and pencil and hundreds of lines are drawn in painstaking order before the hoop is attached and she sits down with her needle and thread to hand quilt.
Likewise, it has been with great effort that I have had to pull the pieces of my life together that were shattered that cold January day that I called 911 when Dale was unresponsive. When the firetruck and ambulance arrived moments later and the 4 EMTs surrounded his chair and told me he wasn’t breathing, all I could do was to stand back and watch as they pulled him to the floor, cut open his shirt and started resuscitation procedures; over and over they pushed on his chest and called out to him to breathe. Was I breathing? I don’t think I was! Eventually one looked up at the clock and announced the time. “No!” I whispered. And out of their bag one pulled paddles attached to a unit that they quickly adjusted, placed the paddles to Dale’s chest and yelled “Clear!” Every ounce of my body shook uncontrollably, tears flowed and I prayed like I’ve never prayed before. This could not be happening. And suddenly, there was life. He wasn’t gone. The dear sweet wonderful men, who did not give up, strapped him to a gurney and rolled him out the door and into the blue and white ambulance, climbed in, shut the door and down the long driveway they all sped - past the fire truck, down the tree lined lane and through the gate.
I stood at the door of the house. The silence was unbearable and I was unable to move until a fireman came up behind me, he’d stayed to clean up and put away the supplies. He gently told me that he would close up and I was to get in my car and follow the ambulance to the hospital, if I was ok to drive. I nodded and turned to go back into the house to get my keys and purse and cell phone. The fireman had the living room back in order. The leather arm chair Dale had been sitting in was back where it belonged. The only thing that my eye focused on were the black streaks and marks on the white maple wood floor left from the rubber soles of the men’s shoes as they frantically moved about the floor to save this man they didn’t even know but who was the heart and soul of my life. In my altered and helpless state of mind I found myself wondering how I would be able to remove those black marks from the floor.
I climbed into the car and backed out of the garage. I held onto the steering wheel with all of my might to control my shaking hands and replayed in my mind the directions to the hospital that the fireman had given me. I took a deep breath and headed out. The traffic was bad, I hit every light red and I was glad to know that the ambulance would have zipped through the red lights with its siren blaring and lights flashing. I passed a billboard I’d passed many times before that announced in large digital letters the current waiting time at the Emergency Room. 7 minutes it’s flashed. Oh good, please Heavenly Father, watch over him, watch over them, watch over me. And then I realized I needed to call my sons. They lived in different states, a plane ride away. Their voices were calming to me, these boys of mine who are now men.
The word spread and within hours family and friends from all over the country were boarding flights and cars to be with Dale. For three days they came and for three days he lay in the hospital bed surrounded by doctors and nurses and machines and needles and fluids and loved ones. A tear would roll down his eye and I knew he was in pain and also saddened that he couldn’t communicate. I discovered that he could raise his shoulder to mean yes. I knew - we all knew the time was near. I wanted each dear person who had journeyed so far to be with him, to have some one-on-one time. They all knew that he could hear what they were saying and they all had time to talk about their good times together and to say goodbye. I called our grandson, the two of them; he called Dale “Pa”, were the best of friends. I held the phone to Dale’s ear and tears ran down Dale’s eyes as he listened to the beautiful words of this young man. I called my dear sister and held the phone up to his ear. She told him in no uncertain terms that he must promise her that he would watch over me!! He raised his shoulder several times, “Yes, yes, yes”. There were times over that 3 day period when he seemed to be “away”. I asked him where he went? Was he with family on the other side? His shoulder went up, YES! I asked if he was with Pops, his Grandfather and hero and his shoulder went way up. YES!!!! I asked him if he was ready to go and he slowly raised his shoulder.
I kissed him and whispered, “We’ll always have Paris”- his whole body relaxed and he smiled and I knew it was time to call everyone back in. We prayed and I sat at his side with both of my hands on his arm while his dear family and friends stood around his bed. Several minutes later I felt a surge of energy pass through my hands and he was gone. The machines stopped, and it was clear that he wasn’t there anymore. The pieces of my life lay shattered. How on earth would I go on?
It’s been a year and four months now. And I find that my life, which I thought was falling apart, is starting to fall into place. Like the scraps of fabric in my sister’s quilts - a pattern is developing, a purpose is emerging. It has been a lot of work, a lot of tears and loneliness, a lot of faith and I know that will continue. Sometimes it is only with the hands of the Savior that I am able to have enough strength to make it through a day, sometimes it’s only with Dale’s sweet messages and obvious things that happen that only he would be able to mastermind from where he now stands, sometimes it is only with my dear son who challenges me and encourages me and sees me through so many trials, sometimes it is because of my grandchildren who inspire me and love me and want to hear my stories and encourage me to write and to draw and see life through their eyes and sometimes it is only through the love of my dear sister and brother-in-law who have sacrificed more than anyone can comprehend to be here for me. It is with them that I have a place to be right now. A place of respite, a place of faith and prayer, a place where laughter is once again possible and the idea of dreams are once again conceivable. A place where meals are served, holidays are still celebrated, where “Miracles happen to those who believe” and where when I take a break from all of my work and efforts I can sit on the sofa by the tv and watch the steady up and down motion of her quilting hand which gives me comfort and peace and calm.
And with a spark of dignity, like the new mothers and the man with the golden boots I dare to dream a dream of hope.
Story to be continued……
