Every stitch tells a story

Just like every little girl I looked up to my Dad. He was just 6’2” tall, rather stocky, a former high school quarterback. In my eyes he was invincible, I believe that nothing could hurt him. Age, and my teenage years proved me wrong. Yet, as I grew-up I still found him invincible.

It wasn’t until right after the birth of my only daughter, that we heard the words, “Thyroid Cancer,” uttered from his lips. With surgery and treatment, it was gone and 15 years passes, before we faced the words again. It seemed like the first couple of years we might beat it. His doctor compared it to an impetuous teenager. Then the day come where impetuous turn to aggressive.

Whiles it seemed like there was nothing we could do. I was bound and determined that even if it was something as simple as a warm blanket to keep those persistent chills off, then so be it. It wasn’t like there weren’t plenty of blankets, in the house. There just wasn’t one that he could wrap around himself and feel the love and admiration of his family in each stitch.

I had never made a quilt and honestly, just barely knew where to start. I found myself in a quilt store in aware of the fabrics and patterns. I finally narrowed it down to a masculine jelly roll and a log cabin pattern.

I had no idea the undertaking I was taking on in such a short time-line. I was a wife, mother of two, ran my own business, was going back to college full-time, and a care giver to my Dad. Christmas was just a couple of months away and I had no idea what was doing.

Every night after the family was settled. I would sit down at my sewing table, and with my trusty Fiskars in hand I would cut and pin together the next blocks. As finals were quickly approaching and Christmas right behind, coupled with the stress of watching my Dad rapidly decline. I was sitting at my table one night and just busted in, to tears. I felt like I was letting my Dad down, without this quilt who would be there to “wrap their arms around him” in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep. My husband walked in, there I sat Fiskars on my fingers blubbering like a child. I told him that it looked terrible, that this part the tension seemed too tight and in that corner the stitches seemed to loose. In the most loving voice he said, “Every stitch tells a story. He said if you look close at old quilts you can see how stitches tell stories. Maybe she was tired, or children were pulling at her hem, needing attention. Yet, they are beautiful and timeless, and wrap us in the love and warmth of the one who lovingly made each stitch.” It was that comment that made me realize that it was perfect as it was. His kind words brought the joy back to sewing. For Christmas that year, Dad opened that quilt and used it faithfully until his passing. I tucked that quilt in his casket, and there it remained.

Since, that first quilt I have made several others and truly love the whole process now from selecting fabrics, patterns, and using my Fiskars to cut my fabric.