Quilting Bee

In a small town in the Central Valley of California careful hands piece together beautiful quilts. Many are sewn on machines but the art of piecing and sewing by hand is still alive and well. Hours and hours of intricate, patient work produce unique masterpieces of colors. Having not the patience nor skill I marvel at such creations yet find myself looking for a different quilt among the showroom treasures. No such quilt exists, though I've heard stories of how it's made. Piece by piece, old clothing--worn from years of loving use--is woven into a tapestry. The maker points to each square and tells a story: "this is from Granpa's old jacket. I still remember how it smelled of wood smoke as he pulled me up on his knee to show me the latest figuring he had whittled as he waited for the trash to burn." "This is from a baby blanket we had for my sister who only lived a few days." "This is from my favorite trousers that I wore hiking through the Andes mountains." As the owner of the quilt lies down to sleep each night, he wraps himself in memories, pieces of a life lived well. Though I have not such skill to lay down the squares that tell my stories, I ponder as I walk the small street of this quilting town how I too am piecing together memories to make a tapestry, a desire to have a life that is well done, good and faithful.