A Stitch In Time

I’ve been thinking about quilts lately. It’s sort of a strange thing to be thinking about this time of the year, when most of us are thinking about warmer weather. But quilts are about more than warmth, at least to me.

I grew up with quilts. My great-grandmother and both of my grandmothers made quilts. My "Mom" Decanter made quilts strictly for warmth. They weren’t particularly pretty, but they were functional. Money was always an issue in her home, and there just wasn’t enough to buy the prettiest fabrics and patterns. She made do with what she had, but her family stayed warm.

My "Mammaw" McGill made beautiful quilts. They weren’t as warm as Mom’s. Mom’s were heavy. Mammaw’s were light. Mammaw’s had pretty patterns and colors on them. I remember going to her house as a little girl and seeing squares stacked up from something she was working on.

When I was in second grade, Mammaw made a quilt for me. It had little Dutch girls on it, and the squares were separated by a light blue and lavender border, my favorite colors. My sister was in sixth grade, and she got a quilt too. The Dutch dolls were bigger on Teresa’s quilt, because she was older. Her squares were bordered in red and yellow, Teresa’s favorite colors.

We both still have those treasured quilts, one of my most precious possessions. I have a wedding ring quilt Gary’s grandmother made for us when we got married, with a beautiful scalloped edge. The rings are embroidered instead of done in fabric, which took so much more time to make. She made Logan a quilt when he was about five, done in a log cabin pattern in red, white, and blue.
Grandma Powell had a goal of giving each of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren a quilt before she died. She fulfilled that goal.

My quilts are displayed in my home, but I don’t really actively think about them that much. That changed recently when I saw a news story about a group of ladies that have a quilt ministry. They attend church together, and make quilts for cancer victims undergoing chemotherapy. The quilts are free, and are made with love, prayer, and the good wishes of those ladies who put in hours of hard work so that someone else can have comfort during a difficult time.

I started thinking about how often I grab one of Logan’s old baby blankets when we head up to Mayo. I nap a lot on the trip up, in the hotel room, in the hospital during the procedures, and definitely on the trip home.

So with my brain buzzing with plans, I searched for my own quilt. The ones I have are too old and fragile for the purpose I have in mind. I found the perfect one, and also discovered my grandmothers could have gotten rich. Quilts are expensive these days.

This week, at my own church, my group of ladies are going to take my quilt and make it not mine, but ours. They are going to sign it and, if they choose to, they are going to put a bible verse on it that is meaningful to them.

These are the people that have been with my family through these almost six years of this illness. They have prayed and cried and hugged and ran errands. They have wiped my mother’s tears, and taken care of my son as though he belonged to them. They have called me and encouraged me and made me laugh.

The next time I head up to Minnesota, it won’t be with an old blue blanket that my son has abandoned. I will be covered, literally, with the love and good wishes of those who know me best, of those who have been on this journey with me. I can’t say I’m looking forward to the trip. I never do.

But this time, instead of counting the ceiling tiles in the hospital room, I will have my quilt. It will give me something to focus on instead of the pain of the procedures. Seeing the messages from friends and family will surely bring a sense of comfort and home. I know it won’t have any real healing powers, but I think it can’t help but make me feel better.