A quilt is practical and adds beauty to any room, but it’s so much more than that—both to the ones who sew it and to the ones who receive it. According to Amish tradition, when a couple marries, they receive two quilts as wedding gifts, one from each mom. Once a young woman tells her family she’s expecting, someone close to her—perhaps her mom, grandmother, sisters, or aunts—begins working on a quilt in hopes of finishing it in time for the little one’s birth. If the new parents name their baby after an Amish friend or relative, the woman of that household may make a quilt using fabric from clothes that belonged to the namesake when he or she was young.
The Amish often make quilts out of old fabric. The material may come from a grandmother’s apron, a great-grandfather’s homemade britches, a young woman’s wedding dress, or even from the clothing of a child who died. One of my Amish friends, who is about my age, stored all her children’s clothing in her attic and used those fabrics to make quilts for them as adults. She also collected (and still collects) old dresses, aprons, shirts, and pants from other family members.
Whatever the source, those precious scraps are used for patches, sashing, and the inside border of the quilt top. New fabric is used for the backing and often for the background of the quilt top.
A quilt like this becomes a journal of someone’s past, captured by the fabrics used, fabrics passed down for generations.
I have a quilt that was sewn for me as a wedding present by a woman I call Mama Reh. I met Mama Reh when I was a teen, and on that day I learned that she was my biological grandmother (and that the woman I’d always thought was my grandma was actually my stepgrandmother).
Three decades later, that quilt still has the power to touch my heart. When I look at it, I see Mama Reh. Her effort to patchwork the pieces and sew them by hand, in spite of her rheumatoid arthritis, was her way of saying we are united by both seen and unseen threads.
I hadn’t known how to properly care for a quilt, and it’s in need of repair. So I have boxed it up, ready to take to an Amish friend who will use her expertise to fix it for me.
I will eventually pass this quilt down to my children. But it won’t signify the humor and bonding that comes naturally in the Amish community. This quilt will represent something that ripped one generation from another, a reminder that relationships can be as fragile—and as easily broken—as the threads in a quilt. I hope it will help my family avoid making similar mistakes.
I don’t know if I’ll ever take up quilting, although several Amish friends have volunteered to teach me. But every one of us is sewing patchwork pieces of old and new cloth into the lives of our loved ones. Day after day we’re making a quilt that we’ll pass down to our children and grandchildren, one that is made of scraps from the lives of different people, events, and places. It’s not as easily seen as a handmade quilt, and it may be tattered, but it’s as beautiful and real as any other.
From Miriam
One winter evening our nephew Stephen Beiler was on horseback, returning home from a day’s work. While still a mile or so away, his horse slipped and fell on a patch of hidden ice, resulting in a broken foot for the young husband and father of three.
With his foot in a cast, an already-tight budget and all the economic woes that go with it, and no ability to work, he could easily have become discouraged while on the mend. But instead of dwelling on doctors’ bills and the money he wasn’t making, Stephen focused on the good things he had going for him, taking the “scraps” from his injury and turning them into something else.
First, his injury could have been much worse; there was no costly hospital visit. Plus, being at home allowed him to do things with his family that his job had not permitted, like taking their second-grade daughter to school, spending more one-on-one time with his preschool-age son, and entertaining the baby while his wife did the housework. And one lazy afternoon as the children napped, he challenged his wife in a board game.
Instead of giving in to despair, Stephen and his family cherished their extra time together, making a quilt of memories. They trusted that God would, in His perfect time, heal the break. They also knew that this season would pass.
When life gives you scraps of frustration, disappointment, or worry … make your own quilt.
HAVING IT ALL TOGETHER … OR NOT
As we have therefore opportunity, let us do good unto all men, especially unto them who are of the household of faith.
—GALATIANS 6:10
From Miriam
I have a red wooden sign hanging in my dining room that reads, “We may not have it all together, but together we have it all.”
Since our household doesn’t always look like we have our act together, these words give me peace. Having family around in an unbroken chain, no single link missing, is among life’s greatest blessings.
One weekend we had a couple visiting us who had lost not just one but two sons in a tragic accident. As we sat around our table talking, I heard the father whisper his wife’s name, then caught a glimpse of him nodding toward my red sign. A stab went through my heart. I couldn’t imagine what pain those words brought to them, the same words that gave me peace. I wished I’d taken the sign down, but it was too late.
What comfort could I give them now? I finally concluded that even though the whole family wasn’t together now, while they had been together, they had been very close-knit. They often took family vacations, and they were always mindful of spending time with their boys. Their teenage boys rarely went to bed without a hug and an “I love you” from their father. How often do we take advantage of the opportunities right in front of us?
Surely the fact that they’d “had it together” with few regrets gives them peace of mind. And they have the comfort of knowing they will meet again, and then the links of the chain will be together—unbroken, complete, forever.
A SONG IN MEMORY
BY AMANDA FLAUD
I hold my head in my hands,
As the tears roll down my face.
In my heart I’m feeling emotions rage.
Why did this have to happen?
I fall to my knees and pray.
And I know this isn’t the end.
It won’t be long till I see you again.
I will run through heaven’s door.
I won’t have to wait anymore.
When I look at God’s amazing creation,
I can see that smile on your face.
And when I listen to beautiful worship music,
I can hear you laughing.
Your memory still lives on.
And I know this isn’t the end.
It won’t be long till I see you again.
I will run through heaven’s door.
I won’t have to wait anymore.
From Cindy
I was ten years old when my family traveled in a packed station wagon from Maryland to Alabama to visit relatives. At one point on the trip, we stopped at a wax museum. I was fascinated. I studied the images in the displays, reading about the lives of the people depicted by the statues.
As we approached the last display, my dad reminded us that it was almost time to pile into the car and hit the road again. I soaked in that display and then turned around to speak to my mom. But she wasn’t there. I searched the crowded room. None of my family was there.
I stayed put, waiting for them to return. They didn’t. As the minutes ticked by and the wall clock showed they’d been gone half an hour, and then forty-five minutes, I knew they were not just in the restroom or at a vending machine. They’d left without me.
An awful feeling took up residence in my gut. The room was filled with families, but none of them felt like a part of me. Until that moment I hadn’t realized family had a feeling to it, but clearly it did—in spite of the arguments and frustrations with siblings and the “unfair” stances my parents took. As I waited and fear tap-danced on my emotions, I also began to understand the word stranger from a totally different point of view. My heart longed for th
e familiar, for the ones who knew me and cared about me. I sensed a chasm in my heart that separated me from everyone in that room.
Time ticked by, and the sick feeling in my gut increased.
Finally my mom and dad entered the last display area—security guards in tow. Relief flooded me, and instantly a sense of belonging replaced the sick feeling. Mom smiled casually, but her body trembled when she embraced me. Dad ruffled my hair and then pulled me into a hug.
Hoping I wouldn’t get in trouble, I explained, “I was looking at a display, and when I turned around, you were gone.”
Mom nodded. “I know.” She put her arm around my shoulders. “I’d told you to come on, and I thought you heard me. I forgot that you don’t hear anyone when you’re studying something. I’m sorry. Your dad and I thought you’d jumped in the ‘way back’ and were lying down.” The “way back” was what we called the cargo area of the station wagon, and during long trips I usually ran to the car ahead of everyone, jumped in the “way back,” and lay down.
We walked through the packed building and out to the parking lot. My siblings hopped out of the car and gathered around me, patting my back, hugging me, and asking me if I was okay. This group wasn’t just another family who’d stopped by the wax museum. They were my family.
My brother smiled. “If you thought Dad drove fast before, you should’ve seen him when he realized you weren’t with us.”
My dad placed his large hand on the back of my neck and rubbed it. “Well, we couldn’t show up at your grandparents without you. How would we explain that?” Then he glanced at Mom and chuckled. “I tease about lots of things, but I’d go as far and as fast as needed to find and keep you. You know that.”
We climbed into the car, and I thought about what Dad had said. He was right; I did know how much he and Mom and my sister and brothers cared. We were family—through the fun, tough, annoying, angering, and blessed times.
I just didn’t know until that day what a strong sense of belonging came with the word family.
NEVERTHELESS, I BELIEVE
But without faith it is impossible to please him: for he that cometh to God must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him.
—HEBREWS 11:6
From Cindy
I love what I call the Nevertheless Principle. The conflict resolution in the Sisters of the Quilt series is founded on that principle, which is, that no matter where we find ourselves, we can say, “Nevertheless … God.”
He is the answer.
He has the answer.
When what we believed would happen didn’t, or what we thought we understood about God seems to be wrong or not enough, nevertheless, He is the same yesterday, today, and forever.
Nevertheless sets aside the differences among people in various divisions of the Christian faith and enables us to focus on the only thing that really matters: believing in the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
For those who believed for a miraculous healing but didn’t receive one, nevertheless offers strength and hope anyway.
For those who’ve experienced a tragedy that left them at odds with everything and everyone, including God, nevertheless offers reconciliation with Him.
We live on a fallen planet that we don’t understand and can’t accept much of the time. Nevertheless, God is on our side. He is for us and not against us. And whether or not we understand what’s happening in our world or in the world around us, we can choose to say, “Nevertheless, God is my strength, as well as my yesterday, today, and tomorrow.”
Life hurts. Nevertheless, it is a gift worth honoring.
Believing in nevertheless may seem childlike. But Matthew 18:4 tells us how Jesus felt about the humility of a child.
The Nevertheless Principle gives me peace. It offers me faith that reaches beyond my understanding, beyond my emotions, beyond my fears. Nevertheless says, “I don’t have to understand; I believe anyway.”
From Miriam
Losing a loved one can be devastating. Some people take years to overcome the loss. Some never fully recover. Yet death is as much a part of life as life itself.
Precious memories are the greatest inheritance anyone could leave behind. They can never be lost or stolen but can be recalled and cherished and shared for years.
In 2005 we lost a dear aunt to cancer. Acceptance didn’t come easy. But trusting that she was with the Lord and reveling in our fond remembrances of her helped ease the pain. Aunt Becky was one of the most cheerful people I’ve ever known, naturally spreading sunshine and happiness to those around her.
Aunt Becky was also known for her delicious sweet dinner rolls, which she often made for church gatherings. They were a mouth-watering treat. She baked them in pie pans to a perfect golden brown and shaped them in a way that reminded me of honeycomb. They probably had a real name at one time, but to this day everyone in the family just calls them Aunt Becky’s dinner rolls.
In the ever-changing seasons of life, death is inevitable. Since remembering the loved one’s life can be such a comfort, it is important that we strive to make good memories while we’re alive. That way we strengthen those who are left to deal with the grief. Nevertheless, we will meet again in eternity and experience Aunt Becky’s warmth.
AUNT BECKY’S DINNER ROLLS
2 tablespoons yeast, dissolved in 1½ cups warm water
4 cups warm water
1½ cups sugar
1 teaspoon salt
4 cups mashed potatoes
5 eggs, beaten
2 cups whole-wheat flour
1 cup cooking oil
6 cups bread flour
Dissolve yeast in 1½ cups of warm water. Add the rest of the warm water (4 cups). Add the sugar and salt; mix well. Add the potatoes and eggs; mix well. Add the 2 cups of whole-wheat flour; mix well. Add oil; mix well. Add the bread flour. Knead well, cover, and set aside to rise. Knead well; let rise again. Shape into 2″ balls, seven to a pie pan. Let rise slightly. Then bake at 350 degrees for 20–30 minutes. Makes approximately two dozen rolls.
LIGHT IN THE DARK
For thou art my lamp, O LORD: and the LORD will lighten my darkness.
—2 SAMUEL 22:29
From Miriam
As the sun was setting, Amanda was mowing the last few rounds of grass with the reel mower, determined to finish before dark. Seeing something unusual blinking in the grass, she stopped and bent down to pick it up. To her dismay she realized she had run over a firefly, and the reel mower had cut off part of its wing. Saddened, Amanda brought the lightning bug to me.
“Look, Mom,” she said. “He just keeps on blinking. He’s crippled, but his light keeps on shining.”
I immediately thought of our English friend Gary, who twenty-some years ago was critically injured in a farming accident. He wasn’t expected to live, but he survived. The doctor said he’d never walk again, but he’s still walking today.
His life has certainly not been easy. He endures more pain in a month than most people do in a lifetime. Yet he rarely complains and will go the extra mile for anyone.
His circumstances would cause many people to give up on life and give up on God. But Gary continually blesses those around him. His light shines on in the midst of darkness.
From Cindy
I was almost fifteen when my family moved from Maryland to Alabama. Emotionally, we found it to be the hardest move we’d ever made. My dad was traveling more than ever, and my mom had severe allergies that showed up practically overnight—due to the region or the fixer-upper we’d bought or both. She had constant headaches, but she faced each day determined not to let them stop her from doing what needed to be done. There were just three of us kids by then because Kathy had married the year before we moved. We missed the friends we’d left behind and our sister, but we took our mom’s lead and remained hopeful.
One day I noticed that my special-needs brother, Leston, had bled in the shower and on the bathroom floor. I told my mom, and she took him to
the doctor, where the tests resulted in a confusing array of diagnoses. After a few weeks the team of doctors thought they’d identified the issue and so performed corrective surgery.
After the procedure Leston developed blood clots and had to be given blood thinner, but that caused him to seep a lot of blood from the incision area. Within days he was in ICU, fighting for his life.
For weeks my mom stayed at the hospital every night and came home each morning to get my brother Mark and me off to school. She then grabbed a shower, prepared after-school snacks, and headed back. My dad had to keep working, but when he wasn’t traveling, he helped make dinners, pick up groceries, and do dishes. He also insisted that Mark and I focus at school and during homework time.
I was the typical youngest child, and suddenly I needed to carry responsibility and be proactively helpful. But I just wanted our old life back—the one we’d left in Maryland, where I had friends and an intact family.
Finally my brother began to get better, and when Mom came home with him, she wasn’t the same woman who’d left. Leston might not survive, but even if he did, he faced long months of recuperation before he could bathe, dress, or get to the restroom on his own. Mom had always been strong and patient and had filled our home with constant humming. Now silence reigned. She had no smile. When the phone rang, she jolted. Her sense of humor had been stolen, and she easily raised her voice.
Plain Wisdom Page 12
