Having made a number of quilts for weddings and other life events, I am used to rough edges. People who do not have permanent sewing rooms, or sixty colors of thread at the ready may struggle a tad to complete a block by the deadline. Yet I am impressed that they push through the inconvenience of it and suffer stabbed fingers to be included. The motivation to be part of something bigger than they are is strong. 

There are two more quilts poised to be delivered to young boys, as well as a quilt top ready for backing fabric on the quilt stand next to me. All of them include blocks that were, well, homey. Some of the squares were not technically square, others had seams that needed reinforcement. But all of them deserved to be included. The part that I marvel at, is that once they are incorporated into the quilt, they look perfect. With a rotary cutter and a bold border, every block becomes essential to the whole. 

Marriage is composed of a motley collection of efforts. I made dinner last night, but it was nothing special. I was not remotely tempted to take a picture of it, though it filled my belly. The conversation John and I had after the twins went to bed was nothing remarkable. Even I would be hard pressed to remember it, and I was there. The errands we went on last week together were ordinary. Some of the feelings I had about how long it was taking were rough around the edges. 

Yet somehow the montage of those budding events becomes beautiful. The annoyances fall to the floor like fabric cuttings, and the border of love that encompasses us holds it all together.