When John went to Africa the first time I was worried. Not about him and the many perils that accompany third world travel. Turns out I should have, as he contracted malaria. No I was more egocentric than that, and could not see my way through solo parenting our six children, one of whom was defiant.

But God has a way of swooping in like a hero, and brought what I can only consider a miracle to that tumultuous relationship such that we made a truce before John left. 

I had a strategy for coping, however, although strategy is way too strong a word for what was more like thrashing for a rope when I was in the deep end.

I made a quilt. 

The fabrics were some of my favorites, saved in a special spot. They had Santas, and pine trees, snowmen and ornaments. Mind you this all transpired in the sweltering heat of a California summer.  But I chose to jab back at my sense of loneliness and overwhelm by doing something I could do well. A star of Bethlehem. 

Although I can complete a top in a day, I took my time, playing with the border, adding embroidery and hand applique. When John came home, arms laden with carved wooden animals and goat skin drums, I had my quilt to prove to myself that I had weathered a tough time. 

In the recent weeks of turmoil around Benjamin I have found myself ricocheting away from the conflicts into my sewing room. To balance the helplessness that is inherent in being his mother I am drawn to making another quilt. Two in fact. 

The fabrics are designed by Laurel Burch, an artist who died a few years ago leaving her pieces all the more rare to come across. And pricey. One is of galloping horses, and the other of colorful dogs. 

This morning I sandwiched the first one, and since I am trying to buy less and make do with what is on my shelves, I used two pieces of batting. The point of overlap down the center creates a small lump, hopefully not too noticeable. As I pinned I thought about the stress that has been pulling on John and me these past weeks as we deal with Ben. We don't always agree, and sometimes take our frustration with him out on each other under the assumption that we can withstand it. 

But there is a cost. 

The quilt top is beautiful, and covers up the gap that exists between two slabs of batting. The pinning process happens first, and holds everything together temporarily. Next I take it to the machine and step on the gas. Thousands, maybe tens of thousands of tiny stitches covering the surface will fuse the three layers into one warm coverlet. 

I am not sure where the Christmas quilt of twenty years ago is. Maybe I gifted it. Perhaps it is on a bed upstairs. I no longer need the visible proof that I survived. 

But I expect to hang on to these Burch quilts for awhile. And with my fingers I will trace the lump from top to bottom. Perhaps after two decades of rubbing the gap will entirely disappear.