Hugh flakes of snow fell silently, teasing flushed cheeks as Michael and I made our way from the barn. He trudged thoughtfully, his small steps keeping pace with Mommy’s longer gait. My son’s tumbling locks beneath a cap of whiteness were drenched with winter froth. He shook vehemently before entering the warmth of our farmhouse. “Will the thigs be safe under the heating lamp Mommy?” he asked anxiously unable to pronounce pigs. “Of course, they are now snug and warm and will be able to nurse and grow strong away from winter’s cold.” Although my answer was calm and reassuring, my state of mind was not. I unwrapped my swollen body and helped my tow-headed son with his layers of coats, boots and soggy mittens. Our second child was to arrive in late March, and we had hardly began January. It had been a difficult pregnancy. The days seemed to wear on as if the colors of my life disappeared into a cloak of winter gray. Silent walls screamed at me as the days of not feeling well took their toll. I glanced at the lush green plant nestled next to the kitchen counter, safely below the icy windowpane, I had hoped that it would produce some color to signify the coming of a brighter day. Mother had given it to me in the fall, saying that it was an impatiens. She had brought it in from her garden so it would not freeze. “Water it and feed it with plant food and it will bloom again.” she said. But its response to my care was a colorless existence, along with mine. “Impatiens, sounds like impatient, which is exactly what I am.” Just then the ringing of the phone caught my attention. The soft voice at the end of the line was Aunt Ina’s, a great aunt who lived just down the road. “Would you like a Flower Garden quilt to work on these winter months?” she offered after we had talked awhile. “Well that’s nice of you but. . . “Friends around gave me their scraps of material so I would have enough to finish this quilt, but my eyesight simply is not what it used to be. I know I will not be able to finish it.” Perhaps she sensed that I might need something to help pass the long days of winter. I recalled watching my Mother quilt when I was a child, as she took on various projects for the church missionary group. But I had attempted only one small quilt, which was for our son’s crib before he was born. Piecing a Flower Garden quilt with it’s hexagon design seemed a bit much for a novice like me, however Aunt Ina was convinced that I was up to the task. A few days later, I was piecing the quilt enjoying its bright hues. There were so many pieces, I wondered if I would ever get it done. Michael run his tractor along the border of our living room rug telling me it was a row of corn to be planted, while I piece by piece and stitch by stitch wore the days away.
This purple fabric looks like something Aunt Ina’s grandaughter might have worn. Yes, I was sure I had seen her wear it to worship. Louise had left the community and become an award winning teacher in a larger city. What an inspiration she was. Another day I discovered a chambray denim. How like Hallie this one was. After surviving cancer, she and her husband had been involved in a car accident that left her husband a paraplegic,yet she had gathered the courage to develop a fine producing farm, and along with that they both engaged in many activities to help the handicapped. She must have had many gray day I thought, chiding myself. By then, I had brought the little impatiens to sit beneath the east window beside my rocker, where I carefully cut designs and tried to imagine what materials had been given by whom. As I stitched a rose print, my memory traveled to the time of Aunt Rebecca’s passing. Her family had come home for Christmas Eve gathering and she had died peacefully during the night after their departure. That Christmas morning a car drove into our driveway. Looking out the window, I saw her husband getting out of his car, having made arrangements for her burial, he thought it necessary to distribute the gifts she had made for others weeks before her passing. “These people are the salt of the earth!” I exclaimed to no one in particular. “What lessons in fortitude they teach.” Day after day I worked with the colors that sprang before me, sometimes telling sweet stories, sometimes relating experiences of people whose lives bore the threads of their existence. Then slowly the days became sunnier. Long icicles at my window dripped steadily to the barren flower bed below. and deep mounds of snow slipped quietly into the swirling streams beyond our gate. One day I made the last stitch on the beautiful Flower Garden quilt that was now my precious keepsake. What colors will my life take? I mused. will I yield to the monotonous gray or take full responsibility for the decisions I make? Will I blend, stand out, adjust to life’s threatening blows and bloom in spite of it all? The day finally arrived for our baby to join our household. We hurried off to the hospital in the dawn light and later brought home a beautiful baby girl bundled in pink. As we stepped into our living room, there by the rocker I spotted the lush impatiens. It was bright with brilliant blooms. Tears filled my eyes, “Thank you God.” I murmured softly, “for the quilt to teach me lessons and quiet my nerves, and the little plant with its message of hope.” ————————————-” Good for the body is the work of the body and good for the soul is the work of the soul and good for either is the work of the other. —-Thoreau
