I prefer to be focused in my gratitude. By that I mean knowing through whom I have been blessed. Still it happens each Christmas and at extravagant birthdays, that the generosity can spill over like Victoria Falls, rendering me awash with the altruism of friends. Sometimes I manage to keep track. Fudge from Sue. Sugarplums from Jane. Pears from Danna. Cookies from Rosie. Firewood from Will. But whose name was on the gluten free cookies? 

When I indulge in those confections I take a moment to picture the giver, to savor their friendship and the thoughtfulness that fueled the gesture. 

The other day in church a young girl brought forward the offertory basket. She held it up for the minister with solemnity, though I daresay she did not count the cash much less steam open the sealed envelopes. Did she even know the worth of what she bore? Still it is likely that she felt some measure of responsibility for the benevolence. She did after all walk it from the back of the room to the altar, and everyone knows it could not do that by itself.

One of the gifts I gave this year was a quilt. The reception was effusive, which felt lovely, and it is satisfying to imagine it keeping someone warm on these icy mornings. Yet in a way I find too slippery to snap into words, I feel like that little girl. 

True, I did bring the fabric home from the store. Sliced it up into small pieces, pressed the foot pedal on my trusty machine. Ironed in between sewing sessions, spread it on the floor with masking tape to keep it taut. Steered the whole crumpled mess under the darning foot to quilt it. But is that episode of effort really much more than a walk from the back of the room? 

Each of the nine people who held hands around the table last week spent time below my heart. My body carried theirs for three quarters of a year, and then nourished them for a few more. Yet the older I get the less propietorship I feel for that miracle. Having squeaked by with a passing grade in high school anatomy I was ill prepared to mastermind the assembly of a human child. I merely carried them.

And as they continue to face the obstacles in their lives I am dumbfounded by their worth.