Sewing for my children has brought me great joy. There have been black velvet dresses with matching vests for the boys, flannel pajamas with phone sized pockets, Halloween costumes, and princess gowns.

 

When the twins were in kindergarten I used four hand carved Santa buttons I had been saving, to embellish green flannel dresses with red sleeves and a Debbie Mumm Santa print for the pinafores. The collars had embroidery and the elbows tied with emerald ribbons. They loved them. 

 

The next Christmas they still fit, and the girls were happy to wear them again. Another year slipped by and although I was willing, eager really, to create new frocks they wanted the familiar ones again. 

 

By the time they were in third grade I had to lower the hems and adjust the buttons, but they still fit. Then came fourth, fifth and sixth. Each December I offered, each time they chose to wear them again with minor adjustments. 

 

Eventually they were in seventh grade, a time often associated with emerging preadolescence. But once again they preferred to wear the Santa dresses. The hemlines came skimpily close to their thighs so Aurelle went on ebay and searched for "Magic of Santa" which appears on the cloth. She found a remnant of the same fabric. It arrived in a few days and I added ruffles at the bottom, which are brighter than the aprons and just as cute. I added to the shoulder straps and created fresh buttonholes. We jumped in the car to buy red flannel to match the sleeves, and I added ruffles to the dresses. The necklines were too tight for comfort, so I cut bigger collars. They fit as if they had been made for them, which it turns out they were. 

 

Eight years. That is a long stretch of time to squeeze into the same outfits. Yet the cache of memories associated with these dresses means more than any trendy items off the rack ever could. 

 

When I go to church this Christmas, the readings will be the same as they have been for the past eight years. The story has not been upgraded. Yet each season I feel nourished by the text, both what is familiar and what I notice in a fresh light. The known is comfortable, and worn. 

 

 

There are other aspects of the story that seem added on, like the interaction of Anna the prophetess with Jesus. She was in the temple as the Babe was brought to be blessed by Simeon. Anna was a widow for most of her eighty four years. That is a significant stretch of time to long for someone you love. I hadn't really thought about it before. Yet her joy at seeing the Child had no aftertaste of impatience. Immanuel was worth waiting for. 

 

There are things I already know. Who I married, how many children I was given, the parameters of how I serve are all facts I recognize. Yet there are unknowns added on, like ruffles. How will my adult children face their challenges? What health issues will emerge for people I care about? How will my son on the spectrum find his way? 

 

I feel grateful to be clothed in both the familiar, and the unexpected. It helps me grow into uncertainty. It is almost as if my life has been made for me. Which I guess it has.