The Power of Quilting

 Every night growing up I climbed into bed in my light blue room, with my light blue curtains, and my twin-sized bed. On that bed was a patchwork quilt comprised of two quilts that were so worn and torn they could no longer support themselves. These two quilts were patched by four generations of my family. Then they were sewn together using red embroidery thread. This connecting red thread is so bold and crooked that it stands out. Running perpendicular to the rectangular pattern of the patches, the stitch goes straight through both quilts connecting them into one. Often times in bed at night, I would find my index finger tracing the thread, imagining my Nana’s soft hands driving a large needle through the quilt.

When I was six, my Nana taught me the art of embroidery. With a pencil-drawn circle for a face and two triangle ears, I watched her hands show me how to push the needle through the soft, thin fabric while staying on the dotted lines. Like most young children learn to write their letters, I was learning how to sew; preparing myself for when it would become my turn to patch the family quilt. I spent hours pushing a red thread through my white fabric to create the outline of a cat. This experience was special; by learning the art of embroidery, I was overcome with joy that Nana believed me responsible enough to handle the sharp needle all by myself.

 My Nana is a teacher, a quilter, a wife, a gardener, a mother of three, and that was barely the beginning. Her hands experienced cold winters, needles and thread, broken dishes and glasses, roots, thorns, holly trees and more. Those hands cooked meals every night - carrying scalding hot pots and plates as if they simply had no temperature at all - and baked hundreds of pecan pies, snicker doodle cookies, and brown sugar tarts. They learned to type on a typewriter and then on to computers, Netflix, and Gmail. Her hands did it all.

However, the most important task was the quilts that they made. There was a quilt for every occasion.  There were quilts for graduations, weddings, and babies. As loved ones grew, so did their lives along with a new quilt.  With love in every stitch, the quilts were signed, dated, and gifted. Each milestone was rewarded with a quilt. As each of the children’s lives grew into their own busy families, step by step, they were also growing away from Nana and her hands.

 Following in Nana’s footsteps, it soon became time for my hands to stitch up seams and sew on warm flannel patches. I few years ago it was my turn in the family quilting experience, to make the quilt strong, so that my children can one day continue this work of art.

When I wrap myself in my patchwork quilt with the red embroidery thread, it is like Nana’s arms wrapped around me. I can close my eyes and feel the softness of her sweater, her hair, her skin, and also feel the unexpected strength of her hug; a hug I hope someday I can give to my granddaughter. A hug from Nana is powerful. It is a reminder that she loves me always. It is a reminder of my Grandmothers Ann, Ruth, and Marlene and all the time the put into this quilt. Someday, it will be a reminder to my daughter and granddaughter to always love their daughters and granddaughters and to cherish every moment with them and every stitch of love.