It was not my intention to do research. But twenty eight years ago when Micah was born he was given two handmade baby quilts. One was blues and purples, and the other was yellow and red. The first was tied while the second was quilted.
I rediscovered them when I was clearing out the linen closet. I ran my hands over the fabric and remembered, barely, when my six foot, red bearded, zip lining son could be wrapped in something so small. He is my third child, and I was especially grateful for the gifts to welcome him.
But as I looked closer it became obvious that the blue one had fallen apart, while the yellow one was worn but intact. I knew in a theoretical way that the process of securing three layers of fabric and batting with hundreds of tiny quilting stitches made it more durable. Certainly the Carolina Lily I have from the Civil War era would not have been so resilient if it had been simply tied. But here was actual evidence of the longevity that quilting affords.
I liken quilting to commitment in marriage. After all you can slap a quilt sandwich together with a dozen pieces of yarn and call it done. But if you invest the time to push a needle in and out a few thousand times, you increase the likelihood that it will still be around in a few decades. In a relationship, their covenant provides the strength that holds two people together when they get tossed around and hung up to dry.
