I watched a cool video showing the process of printing cloth. Fabric is my palette and I find the process riveting. My obsession for lovely prints is such that I have been known to ask my children for help curbing it. 

 

"Ok, kids, I am going into the store for thread. That's all. If I start to slow down and caress the batiks, yank me toward the check out."

 

The video shows how each of a dozen colors are applied to the yardage as it slides past. Part way through the process, with only sage green and ocher, the empty spaces seem, well, lonely. As if they were forgotten. But in a matter of seconds the next ink roller drops into place, spreading new glory in those sections of flowers or leaves that need it. On the selvedge of quality fabric there are registration circles that document each of the hues that contribute to the overall pattern. Any of them would seem incomplete on their own, and conversely their absence would diminish the design. 

 

The other day I saw a friend whose brother recently passed away. I stopped what I was doing to give her a hug and to ask about how she was. She spoke lovingly of him. Another day I wrote to a woman whose brother also died, and she asked if I would pray for his widow. I have. 

 

Seen in isolation, these small interactions are like a single color. They are not enough. 

 

But my earnest belief is that both of these sisters will have a series of interactions... with family, within their own hearts, looking at the light reflected in a pane of glass... that will fit together. Almost as if by Design. As a whole they will collectively illustrate the beauty of caring for someone even after they slide away. 

 

My hope is that even a life that is lost to us leaves an indelible pattern, that we can use to piece together into a garment that keeps us warm.