Plain Wisdom (19 page)

My debut novels were a three-book series called Sisters of the Quilt. While writing those books, I learned some fascinating things about quilts.

Quilts provide a way for Amish women to be creative inside a restricted lifestyle. Sewing a quilt is also a great reason for the women to come together to accomplish a worthy goal. When my Amish friends make plans for an upcoming quilting, they talk about special creams for the coffee and delicious desserts. The fellowship involved in making a quilt helps to sew love, humor, and memories into each one.

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.

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.

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.

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 the 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
.

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.