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"This is a good idea," my friend Sandy mused, reading the bulletin
board in the
church vestibule. "I wonder what our neighborhood could
contribute."
I sidestepped our three-year-olds and leaned over her shoulder to
look at the announcement. A parishioner's child had
hemophilia, the blood transfusions
were becoming expensive, and in addition to requests for
donors, the parish
had decided to run a raffle on the child's behalf.
Neighborhoods were
encouraged to get together and donate suitable items.
"You'd never get anyone on our block to participate," I reminded
Sandy.
She
and I, brought together by our toddlers and a mutual need
for companionship,
were probably the only neighbors who shared any time
together. Socializing
among the women on our street seemed limited to casual waves
while dashing to the office, quick over-the-fence comments
and brief greetings at the supermarket.
And Mrs. Witkowski, the middle-aged woman in the yellow
bungalow, was
downright irritable. More than once she had glared at Sandy
and me - or
actually gone in the house and slammed the door - when we
pushed our
strollers past her well-tended lawn.
Sandy
was still staring at the notice. "Well, we ought to try
something, at least. How about a sewing bee where everyone
sits around and makes a quilt? A lot of the older women
know how to do that sort of thing."
"I think you're out of your mind," I told her affectionately, "and
you know I can't thread a needle. But I'd be glad to cut
squares or serve lemonade. Hopefully, Mrs. Witkowski won't
come - she makes me nervous."
"She never goes anywhere,"
Sandy
reassured me. "Don't worry."
We were wrong on all counts. Not only did several neighbors like
the idea and
volunteer their help, but at the first meeting Mrs. Witkowski appeared,
too,
bearing a bag of old fabric scraps and wearing her usual
stern expression.
She said little but went right to work, tacitly taking
charge of the project.
There was something restful about the soft, rhythmic work that
encouraged communication. At first, we talked in general
terms. Except for Mrs.
Witkowski, who stitched without comment, the rest of us
chatted about
food prices, the state of the union and the new house being
built at the end
of the street. Slowly we got to know more about each other.
Then one evening Mrs. Witkowski picked up a scrap of red-and-white
cloth,
and tears filled her eyes. Conversation came to a halt as
everyone looked at
her. "I remember this material," she murmured finally.
"It's from a dress I
made for my daughter when she was ten."
There was an uncomfortable silence, and I blundered into it. "I
didn't know
you had a daughter, Mrs. Witkowski," I told her.
"I don't. Not anymore." The words were blunt. "She died of
leukemia four
years ago."
The silence grew even more unbearable, and then another woman
spontaneously reached over and took Mrs. Witkowski's hand.
"Carol was a darling girl," the woman said, "and I miss
her. It's a shame these younger neighbors never met her.
You must have some wonderful memories."
The entire room seemed to hold its breath. And then, slowly, Mrs.
Witkowski's
face relaxed. "Why...yes, I do," she said hesitantly. "I
remember the time..."
Her words stumbled at first. Then, as the rest of us
listened intently, she
went on, reliving some of the special moments, savoring the
joy that a
beloved child had brought to her.
Gently, other neighbors added their own memories of Carol - her
beautiful
brown hair, her boyfriends, her graduation from high
school..." How long, I wondered, had Mrs. Witkowski kept
her feelings bottled up because no one
had offered her the time, the affirmation, the loving
permission to express
them? Perhaps she had seemed so angry with Sandy and me
because our
children were a reminder of her loss.
From that point on, the quality of our relationships in the
quilting group
changed. As barriers came down, we began to share deeper
concerns.
Midlife mothers voiced their fears about teens away at
college: Would their
family's values stay with them, or would they be vulnerable
to other ideas?
An elderly widow confided her desire to remain independent
during her final
years. Sandy and I voiced our frustrations in coping with
endless diapers and
toddler demands. We talked about God, about our plans and
dreams. And
everyone, even Mrs. Witkowski, laughed - healing laughter
all the more
precious because it was shared.
We didn't always agree, of course, and we didn't solve any of the
world's problems. But during those sewing sessions, we
gained something very special. We learned to care for each
other, to suspend judgment, drop the facade of polite
disinterest and explore each other's spirits. We learned
that being a friend meant sustaining each other in times of
trouble, rejoicing together in moments of happiness,
allowing our own weaknesses to show so that others might
comfort us. As our quilt took shape, so too did our
friendships with one another.
The day came, of course, when our project was finished, and we all
went together to deliver it. The woman at the church hall
was astonished when we told her how it had been made. "All
of you?" she asked. "All sewing together?"
We nodded. "And we're going to make another,"
Sandy announced. "We need the therapy!"
Mrs. Witkowski and I exchanged smiles, then watched with the others
as the quilt was folded and carefully packaged. Yellow
corduroy, blue-and-white gingham, pink-dotted dimity - the
fabrics of our lives now forever connected. It had started
as a work for charity. But the quilt had made us rich.
Joan Wester-Anderson |
