People know that I sew. Which sometimes results in bags of fabric, thread, and UFOs ending up at my doorstep. A UFO is an un finished object. Either the quilter got discouraged, or life swallowed up her free time. In any event I receive them eagerly, and take pleasure in figuring out what to do next. 

This spring I was gifted with a box full of projects in varying stages of completion. One is made of reproduction fabrics from the Civil War. At least I think they are. The prints are outside of my usual fabric choices, and it has been fun to explore their tiny patterns and muted colors. The woman who chopped the fabric into triangles, and began sewing them into octagons was meticulous. Her piecing is more precise than mine, and her points match perfectly. There were not enough of the connecting corners to complete the 56 blocks so I used something from my stash. The choice would probably make her cry, as would my pressing. But she will never find me, and anyway the quilt top is finished. By next week it will be ready to keep someone warm. The weather is predicted to be in the eighties but whatever. Sometimes they are wrong.

My family came to me unfinished. I do not mean they were lacking body parts, but their characters were still in pieces. The babies were as beautiful as a bag of batiks, begging to be assembled. Even my husband, who had a driver's license and a full beard, was not done becoming the man he is now, and it has been my pain and pleasure to be part of their growth. As they are part of mine.

The pieces God handed to me were undeniably perfect. I have botched things badly on more than one occasion, and probably made Him cry. Yet he gave me the gift knowing that that would be the case. Isn't that remarkable?