Yesterday I attended my youngest grandson’s preschool graduation, an event both exciting and bittersweet. For the past four and a half years, both sets of grandparents have tag-teamed caring for him while his parents work. It seems like it has taken no time at all to go from bottle-feeding, diaper-changing, and naps to walking, talking, and telling me everything he knows about the solar system.

The Gift of Time

This sense of swiftly speeding time is the gift of grandparenthood. From raising their parents, we know how quickly children grow. We know to savor each phase of childhood. For the most part, we’re at a place in life where we can take things at a child’s pace. The time it takes to watch a roly-poly cross the sidewalk. Reading If You Give a Mouse a Cookie one more time (because you never know when it’s going to be the last time). Performing a nose transplant on Pooh Bear because “someone” kept chewing on it.

But the Times are Changing

I used to carry his school stuff into his twice-a-week preschool, his small hand in mine. This year he shouldered his backpack, while I carried the nap mat with Pooh Bear tucked inside, reminding us of when Pooh ate too much honey and got stuck in Rabbit’s door. I will miss the school morning routine: marveling at how his mother, a teacher has broken down dressing himself into manageable steps, cooking breakfast together, making Gwama and Gwampa’s bed with Gwampa, and the finishing touch—standing on the stepstool in front of the bathroom mirror for his grandfather to comb his hair, intoning my husband’s lifelong motto, “Look sharp, feel sharp, BE sharp!”

On to New Adventures

In the fall, Pooh will stay home while my grandson embarks on the adventure of kindergarten. And while I’ve been a bit weepy lately as this precious season comes to a close, adventure is beckoning me, too. Stories that wait to be discovered, books that long to be written, and more time, dear readers, to write them.

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Knitting is often a solitary activity. We knit on the couch while we watch TV or listen to a book or podcast. If the pattern is difficult, we may knit in silence. Relative silence, anyway, as we coach ourselves through challenging instructions and techniques. Some of us knit with others on a regular basis. We go to open knit nights at our local yarn shop or knit at church with our prayer shawl group. But on World Wide Knit in Public Day, knitters from all over the world gather to knit in public spaces like parks, malls, and coffee shops. This international event, started by Danielle Landes in 2005, has become the largest knitter-run event in the world.

Why?

Why knit in public? To draw attention to the craft? To show that knitting is not a dying art? To inspire others to learn? Granted, knitting in public can accomplish those goals. The main purpose of this special day, however, is to help people see that knitting can be a community activity. It brings people together. And you don’t even have to be a knitter to benefit from others knitting in public spaces.

How do I know?

In 2009, I joined the prayer shawl group at my church. While most such groups meet in their churches, our pastor required that we practice our ministry in public. We gathered around a table in the cafe of the local health food store to knit in Tuesday mornings, in front of God and everybody. As we talked and laughed and enjoyed each others’ company, we added something warm and friendly to the atmosphere in the cafe. Shoppers stopped by to ask what we were making, often telling us of a cherished relative who also made things with yarn and needles. It was delightful to answer the questions of curious children and see their eyes light up at the prospect of someday learning to knit, too. And we saw faces soften as we explained the purpose of the shawls we were making–to comfort and encourage others amid the challenges of life.

What will you do?
This Saturday, June 12, 2021 is World Wide Knit in Public Day. Even in these pandemic times, we can meet outside, appropriately distanced, but still together. I’ll be meeting up with some of my knitting buddies to help bring a sense of joy, peace, and community to the people who will be out and about on Saturday. I hope you’ll gather some of your friends to do the same!

To learn more about World Wide Knit in Public Day, visit www.wwkipday.com

The Hands of Comfort Prayer Shawl Ministry at Earth Fare Cafe!

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In the meantime, you can pre-order your copy of The Unlikely Yarn of the Dragon Lady from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Christian Book Distributers. My web designer has made me a fancy landing page with buttons that will take you right to the place where the book appears on these sites.

Thank you so much for coming on this journey of bringing a book into the world with me. Please pray with me that The Unlikely Yarn of the Dragon Lady will bless and encourage those who read it. Most of all, that it will inspire those who read it to reach out to those around them with the love of God.

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This is where it’s gotten interesting. Perfect solution, right? No, I still stressed out over grocery shopping. There’s been the learning curve for using this method, from forgetting to check out to thinking I’d scheduled pickup when I hadn’t completed the process. The bananas I ordered were so green they took a month to ripen. And the coconut milk my husband likes is in the store, but I can’t order it online. The day after I’d made a daring foray into the store to snag the coconut milk, my Dear One mentioned that he thought he might be getting a rash from our laundry soap (I’d had to get a different scent than usual, due to availability). My first thought was a panicked internal wail, “But I just went to the store. Just went into the store!”

I stood back from this and realized that I’m way too upset about this grocery thing. What in the world is going on with me? Once I ordered the “right” laundry soap (hurray, the store had some now!), I calmed down and thought about it. I’ve been the designated “food person” in my household for going on 39 years. I plan the menus, write the list, go to the store, compare the prices, use the coupons, choose the produce…ah, that was it. That word “choose,” a close relation of the word “control.” All these years, I’ve had a fair amount of control over this aspect of my life. These days, I’m having to let someone else pick my bananas, along with all the other things that trying to avoid the virus has taken out of my control.

The issue of choice and control is at the heart of much of the controversy and anxiety surrounding the pandemic. It’s why some folks are protesting shelter at home orders, refusing to wear masks, and buying as much toilet paper as they can get their hands on. The power to choose is one of the greatest gifts God has given us. However, it can only take us so far. At some point, we come up against uncertainties, like the myriad uncertainties we are facing because of COVID-19. In the midst of this, I still have a choice–to frantically focus on trying to control the groceries or to entrust this and all the other uncertainties to God, to loosen my grip and see what He will do. I want to be able to do this, but I’m going to have to start small. I ordered bananas again this week.

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In the ensuing years, I made mittens, scarves, hats, and sweaters. Knitting brought me pleasure, calm, and joy. It was a way to nourish my soul after my lively children were at last asleep. At the end of a day of wiping counters and sweeping floors that had just been wiped and swept, it restored me to work stitches that stayed put. Having something tangible to show for a half hour’s knitting fortified me for the long haul that motherhood is. What a gift my mother gave me when she patiently taught me to knit!

Then came the day that she gave me another gift. I was living far away (me in Texas, Mom in New York), so it arrived as an unexpected package in the mail. Inside I found her entire knitting needle collection, many of them dating back to the 1940’s, neatly rolled up in her needle case. I untied the yarn bow and unrolled it to the familiar sound of needles clicking and clacking against each other. How many times had I unfurled it as a child to pore over this array?  My heart swelled as I realized the meaning and the magnitude of the gift. She was telling me that in her old age, she could no longer knit. She was entrusting the tools of her craft to me, to carry it forward. What an honor!

These days I am in awe of all that has happened as I’ve carried on the work my mother began. I discovered the ministry of prayer shawl making, not knowing how much it would change me and my relationship with God. Not knowing how it would expand my heart to encompass knitting friends and sensitize it to people in need of shawls. Not knowing that my love of knitting, prayer shawl ministry, and writing would converge to create a novel, THE HEAVENLY HUGS PRAYER SHAWL MINISTRY.

I encourage you, my readers, to treasure those who taught you to knit and crochet. Even more importantly, I urge you to pass your skill on to others. You never know what may flourish from the seeds you sow!

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Red Mittens

Winter in upstate New York is cold. it numbs your toes, freezes your cheeks, and reddens your nose. During my New York childhood, good mothers like mine bundled up their children to the point of mummification before sending them out to play in the glorious snowdrifts after a blizzard. My wraps included a pink scarf around my face, a jacket with a hood, snow pants that swished with every step, boots, and the de rigueur two pairs of mittens.

These days, kids wear Polartec or down-filled gloves, but I wore knitted mittens. “Thumb in the thumb hole, fingers all together. This is the song we sing in mitten weather.’ I can still hear my mother reciting this poem as she helped me to put on my mittens when I was little.

My mittens were red, hand-knitted by my mother. They matched the little red magnifying glass my parents had given me. I used to catch snowflakes on my mittens and admire their delicate perfection through my magnifying glass. They looked so beautiful, sharp, and clear against the red background. When the cold finally succeeded in seeping through my mother’s bundling, I would go inside. By the time I had finished taking off my wet and snow-encrusted wraps in the basement, Mom would have hot chocolate ready for me in one of the Santa mugs.      

All these things are bundled together–warm, bright, love-made mittens, fun and wonder in the snow, and the warmth and coziness of home as I remember my childhood. The thread that runs through them all is my mother, knitting mittens, making hot chocolate, being there.

The longer I live, the more I realize that the security I enjoyed in childhood is not available to every child. My mother was so consistently there for me that I could take her for granted. That freed me to focus on the work of childhood–play, learning, and growing up.

Such a simple thing, this being there. To the uninitiated, it even looks rather boring. However, to be someone a child can count on is heroic. It requires thousands of sacrifices, the deferment of countless dreams and gratifications, saying “No,” and “Later” to many goals and activities.

My mother was there for my sister, my brother, and me, but she didn’t stop with us. She went on to be there for her grandchildren when they needed her. This is my mother’s legacy to me–a quiet, steady faithfulness as even as the stitches in her knitting that has enabled me in turn to be there for my own children. And yes, I made red mittens for them.

Tell, me, who taught you to knit? How does knitting help you to “be there” for others? I’d love to hear about it.

A pair of those love-made mittens

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