Patchwork Promises

 If you happen to know my husband, you may have noticed he’s nearly always in blue jeans. Has been since I met him in 1973. What you may not know is that for decades (probably since I stopped trying to patch them), I’ve been saving his torn and worn jeans—along with a pair or two of my own—with the intention of one day cutting them into squares and making a quilt.

Eventually, I filled a large box labelled “Old jeans for quilt.” After the box filled, the jeans began piling up on top.

One day I took an honest look at that box with its added pile. “Who am I kidding?” I thought. “This quilt is never going to happen.”

Too stubborn to part with them, I thought I’d make time once I retired.

Then I retired.

Months passed. The jeans remained untouched. Not being one who enjoys hanging on to useless stuff, I reached a decision about the jeans. “If one year goes by from the date of my retirement,” I told Hubby, “and I still haven’t begun cutting those jeans into squares, they’ve got to go.”

I took his silence to mean he held no opinion one way or the other.

Where exactly they would ‘go,’ I had no idea. Do thrift stores want them? I didn’t know, but the pressure was finally on. I began cutting out squares while watching TV. Or, as I like to call it, redeeming the time. At some point after the cutting began, it occurred to me that ripped jeans are trendy and expensive. I was probably sitting on a gold mine which, now that I was cutting it all up, would once again be worthless. Oh well. I never did have a head for business.

The box now contains 250 seven-inch squares of denim waiting to be pieced together. In varying shades of blue, faded blue, grey, black, and faded black, I figure I can arrange them into some sort of pattern. I even cut out several back pockets which I plan to randomly apply at assorted angles to camouflage the blunders I’m certain to make.

Next step: stocking my sewing box with heavy thread and sturdy sewing machine needles. 

Accounting for a half-inch seam allowance, my questionable math skills tell me I can make a quilt about eight feet square if I want it that large. Maybe I should make three twin-size, so each of our kids gets one. Or five lap quilts, one for each grandson? Should I continue saving jeans? How long do I expect us both to live, anyway?

Maybe I should hang onto the finished quilt in case my husband becomes a celebrity. We could raffle them off and donate the proceeds to charity. Can you imagine how much a quilt might go for if made from blue jeans once worn by Dwayne Johnson or Kanye West or Ed Sheeran? How about Elvis or O.J. Simpson or Billy Graham?

Well, I suppose if Hubby becomes famous, whichever of our kids ends up with this masterpiece can cash in. Meanwhile, I have a project to finish. If a year goes by and I still haven’t begun stitching this heirloom together, the pieces have got to go.

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens…a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend…” (from Ecclesiastes 3)

The China Cabinet

In 1979, I was living with my husband in Longview, Texas when my parents came to visit. One of the places I wanted to show my mother was a cluttered antique dealership I passed every day on my drive to work. I’d never stopped there myself, but I’d spotted some items I felt sure would capture Mom’s fancy.

I wasn’t wrong. She loved it! What I didn’t expect was that Mom would purchase a china cabinet. She had wanted one like it since she was a little girl. With no space in their motor home, my parents had to leave the china cabinet at our place, and Mom decided right then that it would be mine one day. We got to enjoy it for the next three years.

When we returned to Manitoba in 1982 with all our earthly belongings stuffed into a cargo van, the china cabinet came with us. We had also acquired, for free, a solid oak WWII surplus desk. (Side note: I love that I write novels set during WWII at this desk!) We laid the china cabinet on its back on top of the desk, stuffed with towels and bedding. Along the way, we stopped for a month in South Dakota where Hubby helped relatives with harvest. By this time, I was chasing our toddler around and carrying baby number two. We unloaded only what we needed and left our van packed to the gills. When we headed for Manitoba in November, we reached the Canadian border near closing time. The customs officer took one look at our overfilled van and said, “I ain’t goin’ through all that stuff. Get outta here.”

We arrived a couple of hours later at my parents’ house in Portage la Prairie. Mom’s china cabinet was finally home.

It moved with her to Winnipeg in the late nineties. When Mom downsized five years ago, the cabinet went to my sister’s house back in Portage where it displayed her collection of nativity sets. Now my sister is downsizing, and the china cabinet stands once more in my home. Since our kitchen already has a built-in cabinet for such things, I don’t need the old girl for china. Instead, we placed it in my office—an arm’s length from the old desk on which it once rode over two thousand kilometers. It displays the books I have for sale and my writing awards. I think it looks great!

Keats wrote, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” I don’t know about forever, but this china cabinet still has many good years ahead of it. Barring a house fire, I’ve no doubt it will be here long after I shuffle off this mortal coil. Maybe it will even hold china again someday.

But for all its history, memories, and beauty, the lovely china cabinet is only a thing. As much as we value it, Mom, Sis, and I would gladly exchange it if doing so meant we could change things we cannot change for ourselves or our loved ones. If the cabinet could buy perfect health, peace of mind, or eternal life, we’d trade it in a heartbeat. If it could mend the wounds that break our hearts or fill the voids left by those we’ve lost… well, I guess everyone would want it. Then I’d have a new set of problems, wouldn’t I?

I’m grateful to know the true source of all healing, peace, and life, and the one who paid the price for them. His name is Jesus. He’s pleased when we learn to love people and use things. Getting it the other way around leads only to misery.