There were cloth panels that were popular in the eighties. All of the components of a Christmas wreath, or teddy bear, come pre printed, with directions in the margins. All you had to do was cut it out and sew. No pinning or tracing pattern pieces on different colored fabrics, no marking dots and seam lines. Just slap together and stitch. Almost mistake proof. Though I have had a few students who found ways to deviate from the plan.

 

It was a way to achieve success with minimal confusion. You ended up with a holiday decoration exactly like the other five hundred people who happened to buy that yardage.  

 

But the children seem to not love them. Not as much as the wonky elephants, and lopsided dogs they created from their own imaginations. One child had the hankering to make a fuzzy cat with a curvy tail. The tail was a beast to turn right side out because no matter how I suggested she stay on the sewing line she tended to lean in. Making the tube that much more narrow. And for those of you who exclusively purchase your stuffed toys, narrow tube means tight turning. Add the component of fuzzy and you are talking about tricky. 

 

But after the frustration had subsided, and the tail was out and the seams were in, she had it. Her very own plush cat. She was thrilled. I was thrilled for her. 

 

Creating a relationship that is all yours entails more room for meandering than say the ones pictured on an ad for jewelry. You know, the couples walking on the beach at sunset or dining at a seafood restaurant overlooking the bay. What do they even talk about? The seagulls? The repetitive swish of the waves? The ambiance? 

 

John and I never talk about those things. We wrestle with misspoken words, and the decision about whether to try to fix the overhead light himself or call an electrician. We argue about who forgot to give Ben his medication, and what to do about it. Narrow conversations, in both application and room to breathe. Sharp curves as we try not to accuse while still making ourselves clear. Fuzzy borders bordering on blame. 

 

But when we come to resolution, as we did last night long after the lights were out, choosing our words carefully, it is ours. Our marriage. Imperfect as it may be. 

 

And God is thrilled with us.