I am surrounded by wool. The craft called felting involves stabbing a fistful of soft color hundreds of times, with the intention of weaving the fibers together. It is counter intuitive, that poking with a barbed needle strengthens their connection, but there you have it. 

 

The last two weeks have seen a flurry of overlapping kindnesses, with the completion of the twelve days of Christmas. People darted across the yard to leave a basket of chocolate eggs, or leaping frog candy, or beaded birds by the doorstep of friends. Two women donned mob caps and aprons to deliver a bucket of cheese. For the fifth day there was a photo album of the five wedding rings in their family, These stabs at piercing through the isolation have made all of us feel closer, even though we are still mostly behind closed doors. 

 

In a conversation last week I learned that one of the women giving to another was completing a circle that began twenty years ago. As chance would have it, this year's recipient was one of the stream of givers to the other woman's family when she was a little girl. 

 

There are children and grandchildren included in the parade of pink tutus, and cow puppets showing up like magic. What will their memories be, of a community that wove them into the midst with bright color? 

 

Another stream of baskets have appeared of late as well. Festive collections of deliciousness, and bright appreciation have shown up at the thresholds of nurses and doctors in town. The impetus of course, though it is hard to fully express it, is one of struggle. The strain on medical workers has been sharp and repetitive, lasting for hundreds of days and long nights. 

 

Yet God uses even these jabs to our spirit to somehow give us a reason to leap for joy.