Their Maker's Hands

By Elizabeth Wilson

Their Maker's Hands by Elizabeth Wilson is a Christian novel featuring several strong female protagonists in a tight-knit community of mothers, daughters, and friends. This feel-good, scripture-based work of Christian fiction explores multi-generational family ties regarding parenthood and growing up, while building a ri

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grace Reigns Publishing
• Release date: Mar 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985326918

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Copyright © 2022 Elizabeth Wilson

All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law and fair use. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.

Grace Reigns Publishing

Rochester, New York

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This is a work of fiction. While some characters have been named after real people, the events and characterization are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner for the purpose of storytelling. Any similarities to real events are coincidental.

Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Bible, public domain.

Cover by Elizabeth Wilson

Author photo © Rebecca Atwood Photography

Design and layout by Rachel L. Hall, WritelyDivided Editing and More

ISBN: 979-8-9853269-1-8 eBook

Their Maker’s Hands / Elizabeth Wilson, 1st ed.

Dear Reader,

I was first inspired to write this book when I married my husband and moved out of my childhood home. I have always found great comfort and affirmation in knowing exactly where I am, where I come from, my role and relation to others, and the people to whom I belong. In marrying and beginning a brand-new family of two, all of the social constructs and self-identity I had were rewritten. They are still being rewritten. It is a beautiful, necessary, healthy, and yet sometimes sad process.

God has revealed that my true, immovable identity is tied to who I am in Christ. It is not dependent on any worldly thing, place, or person. Thus, whatever circumstances change here on earth should not affect my identity at its core. I have that peace with me always. We tend to wrap ourselves in the things we feel give us meaning, the experiences that we let define us, and those whom we call our people. These might become part of our personality and story, but they do not establish our identity. Who and what we came from is important, but where we are going and where we end up has greater eternal weight.

I am fascinated by the process of growing up: the things we lay aside as childish; the things we outgrow (whether willingly or not); the necessity of it all as we join society as adults. The nuances of life and social interactions perplex and thrill me. In this book, I explore intergenerational relationships between family and our peers.

I am a maker and crafter. I find great satisfaction in making things with my hands and working toward a skill. I am surrounded by makers right in my very own family who inspire me. I love the idea of women passing on skills through the generations, as they encourage and teach their children, nieces and nephews, cousins, etc. These talented women and my very dear friends have been my inspiration. God, the greatest Creator and Maker of all, continually inspires me. May He get the glory for all He has done.

My family and my close friends have been present for me during hardships and celebrated many joys with me. I count it an additional blessing that many are Christian and give godly counsel when I need it. Although some characters in this book are named after real people, the events did not occur in their lives.

I became a mom recently, and there are doors of my heart open now that I didn’t know existed. Our baby has taken hold of my husband and me like no other and given us insight into the heart of God our Father. I am forever thankful for the exquisite blessing of being this girl’s mom. She is dearer to me than I could ever describe.

Within these pages, you will see that the point of view changes a fair amount. I find this enriches the experience of relationships and interactions. Maybe I’ve broken the rules here, but I wonder if we can establish a safe space for that in this book. I’ve enjoyed exploring my characters and scenes. I hope you do, too. We live life from our own point of view, only able to speculate on what others must be thinking and feeling. If you have the capacity for empathy, then perhaps you may be more gifted at this than others. However, in this book, I wanted my characters to share their scenes and emotions with you as if you were one more character sharing their space.

At times, I use descriptive imagery and imagination. I also quote Bible scripture. I would like to make clear that I believe the literal word of God and the distinction that what was God-breathed and inspired in His Holy Word is not interpreted by me in any kind of allegorical or symbolic way. What God has written in His Word remains just that – His literal, inerrant word. There are times when the characters interact with God’s Word in this book, and I interpret that scripture literally. And the times when the characters use their imaginations? Those are fictional, invented by me.

There were times when writing this book was a very lonely process, and I struggled. I am thankful for the little encouragements that God sent me to keep going. This book is a work of fiction. I do not presume to know how God would work in a given circumstance. His choices and plans are perfect. Mine are not. His ways are mysterious sometimes. I’ve simply written some scenes with flawed people who see God working in their lives. This book is imperfect, just like its characters, and some things may be unresolved. Isn’t it a blessing that our Holy God and King loves us despite our flaws? I rest in His grace and forgiveness daily. If there is anything good in this book, God gets all the glory. Any fault rests on my shoulders.

I deeply hope you enjoy this book. It is my prayer that Their Maker’s Hands will both exhort believers and get non-believers thinking. If it merely gives you pause to consider something in a new way, then I will still consider that a success. Please know that God loves you, Reader!

Thank you for reading.

Sincerely,

Elizabeth Wilson

A Shared Joy of Making

Laughter echoed from the sunroom where four friends sat, their hands as busy as their mouths. They might have been old, depending on the day. They were all married and graying, with the wisdom to match, and while it was true that their children were no longer children, they would remain parents until the day they died. And then some, for good measure. Their lives were even now conveniently entering the same season and they were glad. They weren’t designed to go through it alone.

These blocks make sense to me. If only my marriage were more like quilting, Heather lamented as she began binding the first side of her ‘Granny Squares’ quilt. Only in binding it by hand could she be truly satisfied with its completion. It was akin to getting the last word in an argument, and she did sometimes argue with her projects. She would find herself pleading with her fabric to cooperate, urging the pieces to fit. As if fabric could talk.

Just that morning, during a discussion between her and herself, Rick had laid down the spoon in his cereal and asked, Should I leave you two alone?

Don’t you know me by now? she had jested.

Hey, you make it easy. I don’t have to say a thing, because you’re more content to talk to yourself than me.

Well maybe if you said something now and then I wouldn’t have to talk to myself, she said, smiling in spite of its truth.

You already know exactly what you want to hear, so why bother?

Oh, and you don’t talk to your cheerios each morning?

Not out loud.

Because you’re talking about me, right? I knew it.

My ‘O’s are the only one in the ‘knows.’

She had rolled her eyes at him. Maybe we should get some bran flakes. Then you’ll have to talk to me.

If you think my cheerios are chatty, you should hear the bran. It just talks to my bowels instead.

Ugh, Rick! She threw her napkin at him.

You of all people should understand its power.

Sure, they could joke together. That was easy. But she wanted more than witty banter. She wanted him to talk to her and trust her as his confidant. They had traded intimacy for laughs.

Sighing, she added to her friends in the sun room, You’d think I would have a much better understanding of my marriage. I’ve only been working on this quilt for a month; I’ve been working on my marriage for 26 years! I miss having the kids in the house. It feels too empty without them. There were more voices to fill the silence when they were home, and Rick revealed a tender side of himself that was apparently reserved for their children.

She pulled more of the quilt across the couch onto her wide lap, and hoped her friends could imbue her with wisdom from their own marriages.

Paula, seated across from her, reminded, Your kids have been out of the house for a while now. She continued knitting as she said it. She was in the sweet spot of her cardigan between the yoke and the hem. All she had to do was pay attention to which row was a purl and which was a knit. She was shifting in her chair again, probably her back aching.

"I know, but I still considered it a full nest, since the kids used to visit more often. When was the last time her family of four had sat around the table together? She would have to put a family dinner on the calendar. She’d pencil it in for a year from now because her kids were always too busy to see the people who had raised them. We only gave them room and board well past age eighteen, clothed them, fed them all their life, you’d think they would show up on our doorstep now and then."

With your homemade pasta, I’m surprised they don’t, Carrie said from the beading table behind her. Then she rose and slipped out of the room. The tea must be ready, so Heather laid aside her quilt. It was giving her a hot flash anyways. Maybe she should stick a few ice cubes in her tea mug.

Maybe marriage isn’t that different from quilting, Paula said. You take pieces of fabric cut from different cloths and join them together to make something new. Take your time, arrange them just right and you’ll have a masterpiece. She knit a few stitches and continued, It takes a lot of work, but you get something beautiful out of it at the end.

If only life were as easy to navigate as the crafts they employed. Although often these projects were not easy at all; it was simply that they had been doing them for so long that they had forgotten they could be difficult.

That’s very poetic of you, Paula. To humor her, Heather considered her quilt again. The swatches of fabric that made up the blocks in her quilt were like the moments that made up each year of her marriage. Or maybe they were scraps of idiosyncrasies being forced to coexist. In the end, they added up to a beautiful design under her hands when she had run them through her machine.

I just wish he would talk to me, she said. In 26 years you’d think we’d have learned how to carry on a conversation.

Do you talk to him? Mary asked.

Heather opened her mouth to reply, of course she did. But as she played back their conversation from that morning her lips closed. They had both claimed the other spouse did not talk to them. How could she be upset with him for not communicating with her, when she herself was guilty of the same thing? Maybe the change needed to begin with her.

Before you had the kids as a silence buffer, Paula explained. There was always something to talk about. A math test, the next soccer game.

Heather snorted. What do we talk about besides the kids?

The ladies chuckled.

You have your own lives too, Mary told her. She combed her fingers through her gray-streaked bob. Have you tried going on dates? Like you used to?

Heather dropped her binding into her lap for a moment, and turned to her friend.

I asked Rick if he wanted to go get coffee and he looked at me like I had five heads! He said, ‘Sure, Heather. In fact, I’ll go downstairs and make a cup right now. It’ll taste twice as good because I didn’t have to leave the house.’

She watched Mary nod and say, Marriage means you are always learning about each other. He likes making his own coffee, so let him. Don’t lose your ability to learn. Jim and I are constantly stumbling through our marriage together as we learn and relearn.

Yeah, you’re discovering the everyday stuff about him again, Carrie said, returning from the kitchen. She set the tray of tea on the table between them.

Right, people change over the years, but you stay committed to loving your spouse. It’s not dependent on who they are on any given day, Paula said.

Just like God’s unconditional love, Mary agreed.

He isn’t the same man you married all those years ago, and you’re not the same woman that he married, Carrie said.

Thank goodness, Heather replied. If her memory served her, she had been a real pill at times. Would she marry Rick today, knowing what she knew now? How could they not get married after all they had shared in life? How could she share the life they had built with anyone else? She wondered how Rick would answer that question. Would he still choose her today?

It was unbearably hot. Heather strided to the closest window and heaved it open, sighing with relief as cool air hit her. She leaned into the night air, her bottom the only thing facing the room.

Nice jeans, Heather, Carrie said.

Heather gave them a little jaunt. Got them on sale yesterday.

Carrie joined her at the windowsill. You’re hogging the air.

Anyone else want a turn? Heather asked, as the night’s breeze licked her skin.

The only thing I want right now is my tea, Mary said. You made decaf, right?

Carrie nodded.

Good. Last time I tossed and turned all night long.

Paula held up her hands, as if accepting responsibility since she had hosted the week prior. Last time, I just reheated the pot of regular that Carl made that morning. I didn’t want to waste it. The ladies accepted their teacups from Carrie’s tray and resumed their places around the room.

Tea isn’t that expensive, Mary said, furrowing a brow over her grin. You could always dump it and make a fresh pot.

Paula shrugged. Carl doesn’t like when I waste it. Then she raised her cup, as if saluting. Many of life’s problems can be solved over a cup of tea.

And, it’s vanilla, Carrie added.

Which means…

…that it’s a good cup of tea?

What if there are scones involved? Mary asked, having made her famous lemon poppy seed scones, one of the ladies’ favorites.

It means we can solve just about anything, said Paula.

Carrie raised a scone in Mary’s direction. Well done, Mary.

It was true. Tonight they were extra yummy. Perhaps the company made them sweeter.

Carrie turned to Heather and continued their previous conversation. Heather listened as she leaned on the back of the couch, basking in the cool air. When the kids are in the house, everything kind of revolves around them and what they’re doing. That’s to be expected. But your husband has always been there, and now you get to date someone you have a history with. It’s exciting, isn’t it? You get to rediscover this person who’s been sharing your home all along.

Heather watched Carrie slide a few beads onto what she called ‘earring sticks,’ but which Carrie insisted were called ‘head pins.’ It takes work, Carrie added. "Some nights when it’s too quiet during dinner, I just stare at Danny until he has to speak. And sometimes he just looks back at me and we end up in a staring contest – both of us too stubborn to relent."

Heather chuckled.

Jim and I are forced to communicate more as well, Mary said, shrugging. It was easier when the kids were home.

Heather considered Mary and Jim’s marriage. Its trials were no more extraordinary than those of the other three, yet theirs had almost ended. How did a marriage get so close to its end? It was unnerving to think that a million small things could add up to something so abrupt and final. It was as if spouses forgot to die before they parted. The scary thing was…it could have happened to any of them.

Don’t lose hope, Paula added to Heather. You are entering one of the most enriching parts of your marriage. A season to grow together. It’s going to be awkward at first. Enjoy it, laugh a little, laugh at yourselves for being awkward, Paula said.

Their reassurance gave Heather hope. It seemed easier to handle here in good company, since her friends were going through it too. It was cathartic simply to have a few sets of ears in her corner.

It’s like we don’t know what to do with each other, she said, knowing they would understand. "Well, we know what to do with each other, but you know what I mean."

Carrie shrugged. I think that’s normal. The every-day stuff is just out of practice now.

Heather smiled at this irony.

Carl and I started playing tennis together just for something to do, said Paula. For two months I thought I had to keep playing because he loved it so much. He thought the same thing about me.

Neither of you liked it? Carrie asked.

Nope! We settled for dating at the diner, and the occasional movie night.

Sounds good to me, Heather said. She would gladly accept that, if only Rick was motivated to leave the house with her. Did he think so little of her? She wasn’t trying to be vain, but she wanted him to think she was worth showing off. She wouldn’t even make a big show of it. His were the only eyes she cared about. He hadn’t even noticed her new jeans.

She had stood in front of him before she left that night, and asked, What do you think? as her hands smoothed the denim so it would be obvious what she was referring to. He had looked at them for a moment, before nodding, and answering, Yup. Those are definitely your legs, and returning to his article.

Find out what he likes doing, Mary suggested. Maybe it’s not tennis–

Maybe it’s badminton, Carrie said. Heather shot her a smile.

–but you’ll find out soon enough. Mary rooted through her embroidery floss, adjusting her bifocals as she perused the colors. She held up a loop, stared down her nose at it, and dropped it again, tilting her head down to search the others. Bobbing for floss.

Heather was grateful she had not yet needed glasses. She could still manage the needle in her binding okay. Threading the needle though…that was another story. She reached a hand back to Carrie. Can you thread this?

Carrie accepted the needle and brought it under her beading scope.

That’s cheating.

No, it’s resourceful. There’s a difference.

Mary called them to attention again. It requires more effort – dating after marriage versus dating before, she said. You guys will find a groove again, it just might take some time.

What about church? Do you still go together? Pray together? Paula asked.

Heather tilted her head, running a hand over her forehead. We go every Sunday, but I think it’s just become routine now. We don’t really talk about it after. I don’t think we’ve prayed together in ages.

That was the other thing. Their spiritual intimacy was lacking too. She knew Rick was a God-fearing man, and didn’t question it. She could just see it now. ‘Hey Rick, what do you think of today’s message?’ ‘Good, same as always.’ Then he would take his Sunday nap. His brown, leather slippers would sit by the side of their bed.

She remembered their laughter when she used to nap with him. He would open his eyes to find her sticking out her tongue at him. She would open hers to find his nose an inch away. He knew exactly the spot to tickle her when she rolled over, making it difficult to fall asleep. Of course, they were two decades younger then. Maybe she would ask him to pray with her anyways. She could use a weekend nap now and then, too.

They continued working on their projects and sipping their tea as it gradually cooled.

I guess it’s my turn, Paula said, rising to her feet. Who needs a warm?

Carrie held up her mug without taking her eyes off her earrings. Tomorrow she might rearrange the beads entirely, but for now she was happy.

While Paula carried their mugs to the kitchen, Heather’s mouth turned up. Who needed a clock? Their time together could be marked by counting the number of tea rings inside their cups. Even a good cup of tea was often forgotten when its accompanying project was especially gripping.

Study, pray together, and don’t let your pride get in the way, Mary told Heather a few minutes later. She stretched, and stood. Ask Rick to go on a date with you if he doesn’t ask you first. She stepped over Paula’s feet and rounded the table.

Where are you going? Paula asked.

Mary raised her eyebrows. To the bathroom. You want to join me?

Oh, you’ll have a better time without me.

I’ll write home about it, Mary said, her voice trailing down the hall. Three ply, and the new vanity…

Don’t forget my lavender hand soap! Carrie called.

The three ladies listened for the sound of the bathroom door closing. As soon as it clicked, the conversation quickly changed to Mary and Jim’s surprise anniversary party. They confirmed attendance, each of them pleased to include their own children amongst the guests. Family was family.

Paula is getting the cake, right Paula? You put the order in? Heather asked.

The order is in. Half chocolate and vanilla, with raspberry filling, Paula confirmed.

They were quiet for a moment.

Do you think they’ll be surprised? Heather asked.

Only if we can keep it a secret! Carrie said.

The rough patch through which Mary and Jim had navigated in recent years unanimously warranted special attention, and their upcoming anniversary was the perfect occasion to celebrate. The friends intended to make it one to remember. The ladies hushed as Mary returned to the room and picked up her cross-stitch.

It was almost time to return home to their husbands. Heather tried not to think about the quiet house she would be returning to. Rick was probably watching television and wouldn’t even hear her come in. Maybe he was already asleep. That empty house was a stark contrast to this brightly lit room she shared with her friends.

Through their shared love of crafting, they did life together, braving the best and worst it had to offer them. Their weekly craft sessions usually extended beyond their projects. Each of them was a work in progress too, for they believed the Bible in Philippians, chapter one, verse six, that, ‘...He who hath begun a good work in you will perform it until the Day of Jesus Christ.’

Their Savior had not yet called them home, nor had He yet returned, so a work in progress they would remain. But it was a great comfort and gift to be in progress with one another.

As Heather lay in bed that night she heard the breathing of the lump who shared her bed. There they lay, two lumps for life. She reflected to herself that she was still so glad to be his wife. She felt safe, provided for, and cared for. Even though this man she knew so well had become a mystery, those feelings that led to their marriage were still there. They had just taken a new shape over the years. She could still trust those wedding vows. Even though they had been spoken long ago, they were still a shared foundation to build upon. She longed to reunite with him in new ways. Surely this was not reserved for the young.

Girls’ Night

Gloria was running late again. Maybe rushing was a form of apology? If so, she apologized often. She pulled into Amie’s apartment complex and almost hit Kristin’s car as she swung into the empty spot beside it. She shook off the adrenaline of almost hitting her friend’s car, and strode briskly to the passenger’s side where her project bag rode shotgun. When her bag was full enough she even strapped it in. Then, she skipped up the steps to ring the buzzer, but the door was propped open, and Amie was already opening the door for her upstairs, having seen her pull in. They exchanged a hug around the project bag and Gloria shook her shoes off to join the other girls, finally all together to sit around Amie’s coffee table once more.

I’m glad you missed her car, Amie whispered to her.

Gloria just raised her eyebrows in concurrence.

She smiled around at Kristin, Amie, and Becka. The four of them might have been young, depending on who you asked. They were all out of college, and three of them were done with it. They did not look alike, but considered themselves sisters all the same. These nights together were getting scarce.

Gloria, you have to help, Kristin implored her as she tied back her blond hair with a snippet of yarn. Her hair was of considerable length, so it was no wonder she wanted it out of her face as she worked. Otherwise she’d probably end up accidentally knitting it into her project. If anyone could pull that off, it would be her. I’m trying to figure out the proper order of colors for my stripes, she said. What do you think? Kristin laid three skeins of yarn on the coffee table. Don’t tell her what you picked, she warned the other girls.

What are you making? Gloria asked.

It’s a scarf for my mom.

Gloria looked at the colors and smiled. She knew that Kristin’s mother, Mary, loved…blue. Only blue. In fact, all of the skeins were shades of blue. If this were her project, she would just pick any color and start. To her, a stripe pattern wouldn’t be made or broken by the order in which three skeins of the same color were arranged. It seemed to matter to Kristin though, so she arranged them in the order she liked best.

The girls laughed, as Kristin groaned. That’s three different choices. She began to cast on with the closest color.

What did you bring Gloria? Amie asked. She picked up a toy truck and put it back into her son’s toy box before sinking onto the couch next to her. In the lamplight, Gloria could see her freckles popping out – Summer’s confetti caught on her skin. Amie didn’t have a project in her lap, and was probably still too busy to craft much, so Gloria gave her the look she always gave her. It was a mixture of sympathy, respect, and ‘you go, girl.’

Gloria opened her bag and proudly declared that she brought a show and tell that evening. ‘FO’s were hard to come by, so this made everyone pause. Starting a project was easy; finishing one, well, let’s just say it wasn’t nearly as often. The girls oo-ed and ah-ed at her finished object: a crocheted blanket. She thought it was time she gave it to Samson, now that he was two and a half! But deadlines in the fiber world were more like flan, so there was always a little wiggle.

He’s going to love it! said Amie. She smoothed her hand over the stitches. You worked really hard on this.

No exaggeration there. Gloria was only now becoming proficient with her crochet hook. The necessity of working on her thesis meant her practice sessions were few and far between. That blanket had almost been the first and last project she ever worked on.

It really came out great, Gloria. Are you proud of it? Kristin asked.

Gloria sighed. Once I got going it wasn’t too bad. I made a bunch of mistakes at the beginning. She turned to Amie. I don’t know how you do it with two needles. I had a hard enough time with my one hook.

How’s your thesis coming? Becka asked. Gloria turned her attention to Becka and surveyed her impressive spread of watercolor paints and brushes. But craft night was a time when anything goes. They had agreed long ago that creative messes were the best kind. Amie was always reminding them that it was alright to make a mess as long as you cleaned it up. This was especially important in the cramped quarters of Amie’s living room.

My thesis is going slowly. It’s taking forever, she said. I was so excited about it at first but now that I’m almost done it’s dragging on. I’m approaching the end of it…I think. If it weren’t for the girls’ encouragement and reminders, who knows whether she would have gotten this far. Sometimes she wondered what she had been thinking when she pursued her Master’s degree. One day she was reveling in the opportunity to exercise her brain. The next, she had to crack open a reluctant skull so she could cram more information inside.

Isn’t it funny how the end of something seems to take longer than the beginning? Kristin commented.

Only if you’re waiting a long time for the end, Amie said. If you’re enjoying it, then maybe you see it for the middle that it is. The end is when you hit the print button and can turn it in. Or weave in the ends. Or sign your name.

Just a matter of perspective, Becka added.

I guess.

The girls chatted about what they were going to wear to the Anniversary party for Mary and Jim. Since their parents were all close friends, it was natural for their kids to be invited as well. Summer seemed like the perfect time to have a party. If only she could find a dress that had flowers on it…

Kristin, we’re so happy for you and Liv. This is a long time coming, Amie said.

Gloria was sure they could have no idea exactly how it felt to have one’s parents reconcile and reunite as Kristin’s had. She remembered the times Kristin had showed up on her porch with a sleeping bag in hand and red-rimmed eyes. She had rotated between their houses when she had to get out. It wasn’t often, but it was often enough. She would take Kristin’s hand, and they would dash up the stairs to her room. They’d cut out pictures from magazines to piece together collages that told stories, and bake too many cookies. Then they would go to bed too late and Gloria would stare at the back of her head, pretending to be asleep so Kristin could cry in peace in the sleeping bag next to her.

Thank you for praying with me all these years, Kristin said. I…I don’t know what I would have done if I didn’t have you guys.

Gloria gave her ponytail a tug. Always here for you, she said.

I second that, said Becka. She turned to Gloria and asked, Are you bringing Anthony?

Gloria sighed. It was mortifying how people continued bringing him up as if he had been more to her than what he was. Was she ready to tell the girls about all that? It was natural for them to be curious, but talking about it out loud would be difficult. It was still confusing her.

Then she caught sight of two eyes peering out from the dark hallway. The eyes locked on hers, and Gloria grinned. She nudged Amie and nodded in that direction.

Amie stood, and assumed the ‘mom stance.’ Samson, she said. It’s bed time. You know that.

The eyes disappeared, but only for a moment. Then the whole boy emerged, bed-headed, footy-pajama-ed, and all.

But what’re you doin’? he asked in a sleepy voice.

Mama has craft night. We talked about this, remember?

What’s a ‘calf’?

Craft, Amie corrected. It’s when you make things. Like we do with your finger paints.

Finger paints?

Amie walked over and tousled his hair. Yes, Sammy. Say ‘goodnight.’

Samson hid his face against her leg, and simply raised a hand of farewell.

Now back to bed with you! She picked him up, but turned back to the group. Actually, Sammy, Gloria has something special to give you! She brought him over to her recently vacated spot on the couch.

Gloria savored the opportunity to give Samson his blanket in person. Picking it up from the table she said, Here you go!

His eyes grew wide. For me?

Yes, Silly. It’s for you.

A blanket!

His jubilation was contagious. That’s right, she said. See there’s blue for the sky, and green for the grass, she explained, pointing to the stripes. and a red border for the tractor mowing it.

He frowned up at her.

It’s just ‘pretend.’ You can imagine him zipping along around the blanket to mow the grass.

He smiled, tracing it with his finger.

It’s a little late, but it’s yours!

It’s late?

It’s right on time, said Amie.

Samson hugged the blanket tightly to his chest, and giggled.

Is it soft? Amie asked.

Gloria watched him bury his face in it, imagining it tickling his nose.

Do you want to take it to bed with you?

Samson wiggled to the edge of the couch and slid down. C’mon, Blankey, he said, and pulled it off the couch after him. Amie held out her hand and he slipped his into it.

They watched the pair disappear down the hall, and Gloria shared a smile of mutual respect with the girls. Amie did the impossible every day.

When Amie returned, Becka dropped her brush in the cup of water she had been using and stood. Are you guys ready for the fiber festival? she asked.

This brought a scatter of excitement, which was probably her intention. Gloria knew that Becka was less enthused about the upcoming festival, though she seemed to enjoy the show of their excitement. Gloria watched her walk the short steps to Amie’s kitchen sink where she began to rinse her brushes. She had tucked her dark brown hair into her hood, cinching it tight around her face. No surprise there. She was always cold.

It’s only a month away! Kristin cried.

"Only?" Gloria said. That’s a long time.

Plenty of time to finish your thesis and be ready to relax, Amie said, poking her in the arm.

Maybe she would finish it someday. She had to finish grad school, right? Her thesis was the last thing chaining her to a desk in the halls of her college.

Oh, Becka, Kristin said. I found out there will be an art show happening at the same time as the festival.

No way!

Yeah, they’re sharing the grounds and everything. It’s supposed to feature local artists.

Gloria watched Becka pump a fist into the air, imagining how her spirit must be lifted by this news. While Gloria herself couldn’t imagine painting anything, let alone holding a paintbrush the proper way, she knew it was the craft Becka adored. She had great respect for her ability to paint – perhaps because she herself was inept at any kind of two-dimensional art.

Every year, a fiber store called ‘Natalie’s Notions’ hosted a gigantic fiber festival and this was the year they were going. She could almost see the open road stretched before her; all four of them loaded up in the car. Some of her very favorite people. She couldn’t remember the last time they had all taken a trip together. The lure to explore somewhere new was too great an opportunity for any of them to pass up.

Brunch

Paula slid into the booth at her favorite diner and picked up the menu. Carl and she came here so often she knew their dinner menu by heart. She usually rotated between a few of her favorite dishes, but today, breakfast opened a whole new door of possibilities.

Hey, Mom! Amie said, and shifted Samson up onto her hip. Paula was not fooled by her smile. She could see the dark spots under Amie’s eyes as she slid out and gave her a hug.

Nana!

Nana is happy to see you too, Samson! Paula said. Her grandson’s cheeks were begging to be squished and she was happy to oblige.

Samson blew her a kiss and Amie waited a moment for the hostess, who was bringing over a high chair. After settling him in, her daughter sat down across from her. They saw each other pretty regularly, and both of them were grateful for it. Paula felt absolutely privileged to be one of Samson’s favorite people (he told her as much).

I brought him a T-R-E-A-T for dessert, she said, and cracked open her purse to show Amie the fruit gummies she had stashed inside.

That will make his day!

Paula continued to study her daughter as she perused the menu across from her. Her brown hair was braided down the back, but those familiar wisps at her temple could not be tamed. Goodness knows Paula had tried. She remembered braiding her hair with green ribbons every time she had a Girl Scout meeting.

Both ladies had just made up their mind on what to order when a familiar face greeted them.

Hey, girls! Gloria said, handing them their silverware.

Gloria!

Hello to you too, Samson! Gloria said.

Mom, you should see the blanket that Gloria made for Samson. It’s beautiful! Amie pulled out her phone to bring up the picture. They lived in an age when an entire photo album could fit in the palm of her hand. But it couldn’t be cracked open and rested between two laps to share memories. Instead, Paula found herself squinting at a small, rectangular screen.

"Nice work, Gloria! Not bad for crochet," she added, enjoying the friendly rivalry between the two crafts.

Hey, at least I only have one tool to worry about, Gloria said, grinning. And it took me half the time that it would take a knitter.

True, crocheting did go faster. One could argue it was more fluid with only one tool flying over the stitches. One point for crocheters. Paula smiled. Are you having an easier time of it then?

Well I had to keep putting it down to work on other things. And I’m still learning, so I lost all the time I would have gained by crocheting it versus knitting.

Paula reasoned that she was justified in taking back the point she had awarded, but she offered genuine sympathy. She had been there. Sometimes life gets in the way, she said, nodding. But life is its own beautiful project.

Yeah, you’ve been a little busy, Amie told Gloria, and turned to her. She’s still finishing her thesis.

Oh, how is it coming?

Hey, let’s get those orders in! called a voice from the kitchen. This must have been Gloria’s supervisor. Johnnie’s twiddling his thumbs back here.

Yes, Jeanine!

It was the predictable lull in-between weekday breakfast and lunch – precisely the way Paula wanted it. She was aiming for a more private inspection of her daughter’s welfare.

How are you doing? she asked when they were alone again. She was careful about her expression as she said this. Before, she had asked it with eyes that Amie said reminded her how broken she was. She saw her daughter often, but still continued to ask every time they were together. How could she not? It would be a remission of parental care not to ask. Amie had been through a lot in the last few years.

Amie looked at Samson for a few moments, watching him play with his train car. It was not the red train. The red train could not be contained by a high chair. She was thankful she could still fit him in one. He wouldn’t be wiggling like crazy, trying to stand on the booth while they ate.

How was she? ‘Surviving’ was often her answer. It wouldn’t really answer her mother’s question though. She could tell her mother that she had finally folded and put away all of the laundry that had been threatening to take up residence in their living room. If only she could charge the basket rent as a third tenant in number 204. She would slowly earn back her quarters from the laundromat.

She could tell her mother that she had made it five days without crying, or that Samson had thrown one of his trains out their second-story window. Thankfully, it had missed their mailman. Would her mother fall for the diversion? Samson was her most welcome distraction.

Good mostly, she said, giving her mom a tense smile. She knew she wouldn’t believe her, but she would know better than to pry. They watched the little boy that shared his father’s name. None of them had seen it coming.

Are you excited for the fiber festival?

Relieved by the shift in discussion, Amie grinned. Oh yeah. I have a bunch of yarn burning a hole in my stash.

I’m sure you’ll find a good use for it, Paula said.

Even if I do, it’ll take me too long to finish. Maybe I’ll have used my stash up by the time Samson gets his license.

Oh no, don’t even. Paula held up her hand. I can’t imagine him as a teenager yet.

Every time I look at him I feel like I’m seeing his life flash before my eyes. He’ll be a teenager in the next few seconds.

As soon as we look away.

Amie grabbed the ketchup container and squeezed a dallop onto Samson’s plate. How could she possibly make it to his teen years? It would be a miracle.

Paula wrinkled her nose. I can’t believe he likes ketchup on his scrambled eggs.

I know, we always have it with fries and then he randomly asked for it on his eggs last month.

Samson seized the day. He dropped his fork and grabbed the container with two grubby hands. Suddenly there was ketchup on his shirt. On his face. On Amie’s hand.

It was too early in the day to yell. Amie closed her eyes and sighed. Would you like some eggs with your ketchup, Samson? She tried not to gag. They were swimming in it. Well…red was his favorite color. There it was on his sneakers too. She would probably find some in his backpack later that day.

Samson, on the other hand, could not have been more pleased. He sucked in a huge, dripping bite of egg with a grin that dominated his face.

As far as the creative stuff, Honey, there will be time for that, Paula said. Maybe not as much time as you’d like in this season, but you’re also working on the best project of your life right now. He isn’t made of yarn, but he’s still yours, for now. God is working on Samson, and He is involving you. That boy is the best creative project you could ever work on.

I don’t know how, Amie whispered. "I wake up each day because of my son in the next room needing me. I don’t know how to live my life too, but I can’t just live his. I can’t do this alone."

You’re not alone, Honey. God is with you and He is calling you to His purpose. Being a parent, being a wife, those are just a few of many ways you can live in His will and glorify Him in this life. Not the only way. She squeezed her hand. We are all here for you as well, always, but we matter less than God.

Amie sat quietly for a moment, letting this sink in. I used to love that word, she said.

Which?

‘Wife.’

They let their food distract them until the moment passed. Amie eventually said, I appreciate your sentiment. I’m thankful for you all. God included.

How are the girls doing? Paula asked.

Her girls! Amie smiled. They’re good. Kristin is making a scarf for her mom, and Gloria just finished her blanket. Becka is still into watercolor. She’s getting pretty good actually.

Amie thanked God again as she thought about her community, her own personal support group. Her parents. Her soul sisters. Their lives were woven together tighter than her knitting. She understood her stitches and the way they worked together. Their arms were linked like a strong defense line.

She was just beginning to understand the way her knitting worked against itself. In stockinette, she knew that one stitch could experience contrasting physics. The knit stitch pushed against its corresponding purl so that the garment curled in on itself, being unable to withstand the push and pull. Maybe marriage was similar.

And yet, marriage could be strong like knitting too. How was it that yarn could achieve new qualities when combined together? It could become stronger, and more elastic just because of how the stitches were joined together, the characteristics of the yarn, and how it was spun.

Some marriages flourished when husband and wife came together – the whole of their joined life being greater together than the sum of its parts. Her favorite bible verse, Colossians chapter two, verse two, came to mind. ‘That their hearts might be comforted, being knit together in love..’

Where has your mind gone? Paula asked.

Just wondering what God is making of my life.

When her mom didn’t say anything, Amie was forced to look up.

Whatever it is, it will be beautiful. Just like you, Paula answered. We can’t always see what God is doing. We don’t see the needles. We don’t know the outcome. We just feel the yarn moving.

Her mom, ever the poet. But she liked the thought of unseen yarn moving around her, perhaps pulling her in different directions. Was she walking blindly, holding onto a string that had been strung up as her only guide? Or was she unraveling a skein as she went, so she could always find where she had been? Perhaps it was both.

Amie wasn’t sure how much she wanted to share. I just get overwhelmed sometimes thinking about the future. She gestured to Samson. I mean sure, we’re doing okay now. But he’s also growing up without a dad and it’s just me doing everything…I mean sometimes I wonder how I even made it through the day. She wondered that most days.

I know it’s hard, Honey.

How am I supposed to do it all? Take care of him, cook, clean, earn a living… And those are just my responsibilities, I haven’t even brought up personal projects, like knitting. The luxury stuff. I feel like I need six more arms to get it all done.

Paula shook her head. Honey, God only gave you two hands. Maybe you’re not meant to ‘get it all done.’ We need God. You think you are supposed to do all that on your own – in your own strength with only two hands? No. Don’t try to glorify the process of doing it yourself. It’s okay to acknowledge that you can’t do it alone, and that you need God.

Amie sighed. How many times was she going to hear it before it stuck? It’s so easy to forget that we need Him.

Why do you think He only gave you two hands?

Amie thought about the ways that God designed humans to need Him; building in these imperfections, these purposeful flaws that would point them to a perfect Creator and Father. She knew that God made no mistakes. Everything had a purpose.

Is that why we hate making mistakes so much? she asked.

Mistakes remind us we are fallible. Instead of being a comforting reminder, we’ve turned it into something negative. It’s the same reason we hate to be wrong, and sometimes won’t even try because of the possibility of being wrong. Somehow we grow up learning that weakness must be avoided, Paula said.

But that’s what Jesus did with our sin on the cross, isn’t it? He killed all the sin and wrongs that would keep us out of God’s perfect Heaven. Isn’t that like removing our weakness?

We’re still weak here on earth. We still sin and we’re still weak, because we aren’t in Heaven yet. We need a savior. That’s why Jesus came. That’s why we need to come to Him and trust Him as our savior. Remember people are born into sin, it’s part of being human. He died for anyone, present, or future, so they could have the opportunity to accept Him, trust Him, and get to Heaven.

Amie felt the crushing weight of God’s love, and could only think about it for a few moments. How could He love her so much? Her mom seemed to read her mind.

He is the only one capable of such perfect love. Aren’t you glad He chose to love us so?

Amie sniffed, and blinked away moist eyes. She had to learn to accept her imperfection. She did not want to hide her struggle from Samson. She could occasionally let him see her exhaustion, because being a child of God did not guarantee an easy life. She wanted him to see that. He would learn that God was an ‘ever-present help’ as Psalm chapter 46, verse one said, and she could teach that lesson by example each time God measured out grace to her.

There was a kind of peace that came from accepting that she was not enough, and wasn’t designed to be. She needed Christ. Telling Samson through her actions that she could and should be able to do it all herself was like lying to him.

I know your time is scarce, but I’m curious if you do have any projects in the works? Besides Samson, Paula added with a grin.

Phew, back to safer ground. I’m sewing Samson’s favorite pants. He tore a hole in them playing with a stick. Amie rolled her eyes. Boys.

What is it with boys and sticks? Paula asked, shaking her head.

You could argue that we’re pretty fond of sticks too. Or rather, needles.

Maybe we can teach Samson to knit. Then he can use all the sticks he wants without ripping things.

He brings me sticks every time we’re at the playground. Then in the car he asks me where my little souvenir went.

Oh, you used to do that too. My garden was littered with flowers, rocks, the occasional frog.

I picked up frogs? With my bare hands?

Paula shrugged. Your father didn’t have any boys.

Amie imagined the wasteland of rotting flowers and trinkets outside her parents’ front step as she grew up. She imagined adding her training wheels, barbies, and Learner’s Permit to the heap. Maybe that’s where her wedding rings ended up too.

Gardening

Heather was not a fan of bugs. She was on her hands and knees in the grass, trying to decide whether the spider she was watching was worth killing. Since it was outside in the garden, it seemed fair to let it live. After all, she herself was less at home in this environment than the spider. Her eyes tracked it carefully as it retreated on all eight (she cringed) of its legs.

Don’t come back, she murmured. Gardening was worth the inconvenience of bugs now and then. The worms she could handle, but the spiders always made her skin crawl. She remembered the time Rick came home to find her standing on a chair in the dining room – the eight-legged intruder trapped under a cup on the floor. He did the gallant thing and disposed of it for her. Rick the Spider Slayer.

What has you smiling? Gloria asked as she walked over, gloves in hand. The two had a mother-daughter gardening date that afternoon.

Heather smiled more broadly as she turned to see her daughter. Just happy to see you! She stood and brushed the loose dirt off her jeans. Then she gave her daughter a long hug.

It’s good to see you too, Mom, Gloria chuckled.

Heather leaned back for a moment, and just looked at her daughter. Every time she saw her she looked different. Older maybe. It’s been awhile, Kid! she said.

It’s only been three weeks, Mom!

Three weeks and my weeds have taken over! My flowers have missed you. It had been late Spring when they last gardened, and Gloria was her go-to gal for gardening help. She seemed to have more strength than Heather these last few years. Her body wasn’t what it used to be. In fact, she felt like a weed herself. She watched the leathery green stalks sprouting awkwardly amongst her flowers. They seemed to inch upward under her gaze.

Where should we start? Gloria asked, tugging on her gloves.

Anything that looks suspect gets yanked, Heather replied. She paused and looked at her daughter. Thanks for doing this. It’s great to see you. She knew that Gloria’s time was scarce these days, between working on her thesis, spending time with Anthony, and working at the diner.

They gardened for a while in silence, until Heather began her investigation.

How is Anthony doing? We haven’t seen much of him lately. This was a point of some contention lately. Gloria didn’t bring him up anymore in their conversations. When Heather asked about him, Gloria always seemed to change the subject.

He’s fine, was the answer.

Come on! Share a little. She decided to pry further. As her mother, it was her job. Is everything alright between you two? Dad and I talked about having you both over for dinner soon.

Maybe.

Heather watched her daughter’s face redden and decided to try a different tactic. After a moment, she said The ladies and I were just looking at the guest list for Mary and Jim’s party. I had penciled Anthony in but never double checked on whether he would be there. Are you planning to bring him?

Gloria sat back and sighed.

Bingo! There was something going on with her daughter and Anthony after all.

Mom…Anthony isn’t around anymore, Gloria said to the zinnias.

Not around anymore could mean many things. Her baby girl looked like she had swallowed a hydrangea. Are you not together anymore? Heather asked.

Gloria said nothing.

Don’t clam up now! What happened between her and this boy that she’d been seeing? Tell your mommy all about it! She felt like she was knocking on the door of her daughter’s life, asking to be let in.

Heather had learned to give Gloria space when she needed time to sort her thoughts, but each passing moment of silence increased the danger of the topic being abandoned altogether. She sat, awaiting Gloria’s response, and the question hung in the humid air while they pulled at the weeds.

Mom to Mom

Later that week, the view from her mother’s garden looked about the same as her own. Heather sat with Beatrice, again trying to account for her daughter and the mystery of her disappearing significant other. She had the disadvantage of never hearing an explanation.

We just changed the subject after that, Heather said as she dug into the ground with her spade. Her mother handed her another sunflower. Its roots dangled under the clump of dirt from which it sprouted.

She never explained what happened? Beatrice asked. She was sitting in her lawn chair next to Heather, distributing flowers to be planted. She no longer had the strength to garden much herself, so Heather helped her when she needed it.

I kept thinking she was going to answer, and after she didn’t we just let the subject drop…into the dirt, so to speak, Heather explained. She patted the ground around the sunflower she had planted and admired her work. Her mother and her shared this favorite flower. Sunflowers always made her think of her mom.

If he mistreated her… Beatrice shook her head, eyes closed. Woe unto anyone who crossed someone Beatrice loved. Especially Gloria.

I don’t think it was anything like that. It sounded more complicated. Issues on both sides probably, Heather commented. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and took the next plant from her mother. Her sunhat shaded her eyes from the sun, but it didn’t do much to cool her off. While Heather felt she wilted in the heat, her mother seemed to find rejuvenation in it. Beatrice was fanning herself with the tv guide, generating the only breeze of the afternoon.

It’s such a shame. But I suppose, if it isn’t right, it isn’t right, said Beatrice.

I think it’s still weighing on her. I don’t really understand what their relationship was, continued Heather. I thought they were together but…she’s so private about these things.

I hope she waters the flowers instead of the weeds, Beatrice said.

What do you mean?

Well, sometimes she focuses on the bad things too much and lets them get her down. She pays too much mind to them and they grow– she reached over, straining herself in her chair to pluck something out of the dirt, –just like weeds. She tossed a dandelion into the trash at her elbow and slowly stood up. Move over, you can’t have all the fun. She gingerly knelt down beside her daughter. Heather knew better than to protest. Her mother loved gardening even more than she did.

Maybe this applied to her own life as well. How often did she worry about things until they seemed larger than life, like giant weeds crowding the garden of her heart? Weeds are bound to crop up now and then, Heather mused. It’s hard to water your garden without the weeds getting nourished too.

Beatrice nodded. Sometimes they grow right alongside the flowers and you don’t even notice them until they are staring you in the face.

And then you wonder how you missed dealing with them in the first place.

Exactly, her mother replied.

"With the good things that happen comes the threat of something that will ruin it, or fears that might strangle