It’s National Poetry Day so here’s another one I made earlier.
I used to fantasize in moments of mental escape
from the madness of parenting and domestic chaos
that I was called to make quilts.
I would have a sunny workroom and spend my days
designing fantastic patterns with rich and satisfying colours.
I would create order and Art (with a capital A) from scraps.
And my life would have order too.
We would live in the country and thrive on fresh air.
Every day the children would spill, laughing, from the school bus
and play together like tumbling puppies.
My husband would find peace in our cosy world
and I would be a happy woman – patient and thin.
Then one day, in the real world,
I cut out nine squares of cotton, painstakingly sewed them together
and thought – maybe the dream was a touch unrealistic anyway.
But, of course there is a more cosmic approach to quilting.
All I have to do is take all the scraps of my life,
no matter what shape they’re in,
and pile them at the foot of the cross.
All I have to say is, “Here are the bits of me.
I’m sorry they’re not much at best and some pieces
are shockingly awful, but they’re all I’ve got.”
And over time, all the scraps will be stitched together
into a life-sized work of art, a communal effort
of my will and obedience and a patient and forgiving God.
There will be no contrasting calicos or prim prints
but swirls of grace and splashes of redemption,
patches of black to offset the radiating joy.
It will incorporate the finest silk of my gifts
and the filthy rags of my darkest side.
It will take every day of my life to create
and the finished product will be too beautiful
and the pattern too intricate
to have been envisioned
from the raw materials of me.