Someone told me last week that I was easy to love and I swelled under those words.  I want to be easy to love because of what that means.

And it makes me consider what makes people difficult to love-

withdrawn

not willing to listen

“all about me”

easily angered

unpredictable

unsympathetic

judgmental

lovers of bad news

undependable

I think of those people in my circle who are easy to love and they are joy bringers, life givers.  They love others easily and in turn, they are easy to love, to cherish.  I want to be their neighbors and share my garden and my courtyard and my groceries.

So thank you for the compliment.  I felt loved just hearing those words and have been inspired to love better since.

Patched together, neatly stitched, some old, some new.  All coming together to make beauty.  Birthed from perfection, planned, ordered specifically to form this life.

But what if some of those patches were flawed to begin with?  Those pieces pulled from the generation before, worn, torn?  What if those pieces have lost their warmth, their loveliness, and have become threadbare?  Must those continue to be a part of my quilted life?  Must I, out of obligation or expectancy, leave these pieces to be carried, used, accepted?

Or, because of the sight and understanding granted by a gracious Designer, might I pull out, pluck from, mend, repair?

Work.  Busy, steady hands and a discerning eye.  A willingness for the needle to prick my finger and sometimes draw blood.  This blood may stain my quilt and when I look back over my work, I will remember and mark the time spent in doing the difficult task.  I might try to hide the blood stain but often it just makes the mark larger and the fabric discolored.  The marker, the remembrance, the glory stolen from that day’s work.   Instead I will leave the tear stains, the spots.

And as I go about the task, I move with knowledge gleaned from the quilters before me, who like me, are removing and mending their imperfections, one square at a time.  And they share their wisdom, their books, their passages of teaching and healing.  They bind my bloodied fingers and help me stitch this life back together when the pain of holding the needle hinders my work.  Lovingly they remind me of the Designer, of the greater design, the beauty still present in the flaws, the small holes, the seams unravelled, the time-worn colors still vibrant in the light.

Because when the cold winds blow through me, the blanket is all I have.  And if I neglected my work, the daily labor of thoughtfully tending my patches with discipline and diligence throughout the warmer, sunlit seasons, my comfort will be taken.  My children will be left to the winter’s chill.  There will be no overflow of warmth to share, no color to brighten the gray and white, no softness to soothe.  Nothing to give.

I add a patch. A small piece from a baby girl’s dress.  Pink, perfect.  A friendship adds a patch.  A prayer stitches, mends from miles away.  A marriage, a birth, an illness, a healing.  Patches.  Stitches.  A mother.  A Father.  Son.  Husband.  A sorrow.  Secrets shared behind sunglasses to hide the tears.  A sister.  A friend.  A soul-talk over coffee.  Patches.  Stitches.  Patches.  Stitches.

I have been redeemed.  Each patch, each stitch, a sign of my sanctification.  Each stain evidence of life lived.

My quilt is beautiful and my hands are fruitful.  My work is not finished and my quilt is ever incomplete.  But it’s redeemed and grace will bind the broken until…  And I walk towards the inevitable Winters to come, prepared, praying my quilted life will bring glory the Creator.

Road trip to Branson, MO with the in-laws with a stop outside of Cassville to look in on the Roaring River and Trout Hatchery.  It was a lovely day; the kind of day I wish came around more often.

I love to watch the kids explore a new area- the way they chase butterflies, climb trees, notice oddly shaped rocks.  They love the outdoors and I love to be with them as their eyes are opened to God’s beautiful creation.

We walked along the river’s edge, watching the fishermen cast and catch, cast and catch.  After being cooped in the car for hours, it felt good to stretch and run.  Although the temperature was oppressive in the sun, when standing at the mouth of the this cavern, the air was cool and crisp.