Todays Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul - 05-27-04

[Guest guest]

The Quilting Bee

By Joan Wester

" 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.