God is subtle. At least when it comes to those strategically timed pep talks that appear like pop ups on my screen trying to sell me shampoo. 

 

After three weeks of creating costumes for the upcoming show, Little Women, I was weary. The hem on a pencil skirt is about fifty inches. One that travels the circumference of a hoop petticoat is three hundred, and when I add a flounce I need twenty yards. Granted I use a machine in a well lit room, while Meg and Jo stitched by hand under an oil lamp. But they were in their teens while I am older than Aunt March. 

 

John was kind enough to deliver meals on those marathon days in the costume room, which sustained me. Plus the elation on a girl's face when she knows she looks elaborately festooned is delicious. Tying an ascot at the throat of a dapper young man in tails is satisfying. But I was plum worn out. 

 

As it happened.... which means God was pulling strings weeks before I could anticipate my own exhaustion... a friend had invited me to speak to her college writing class. I locked the door and left behind molehills of rejected frocks, and traveled across campus to muse about stories crafted with verbs rather than gingham. Sharing my passion with aspiring wordsmiths tapped into a fresh ruffle of energy. Later when I unlocked the costume room door and returned to the list of tasks, I felt younger. 

 

Then as if that were not enough, which it was, that night God timed it so that a friend sent a message of appreciation after he and his wife climbed into bed under a quilt I created. Mind you, that project happened over a year ago, and he thanked me profusely when it was done. But Someone tapped him on the shoulder to express it again on an evening when such an affirmation could replenish my waning spirit. 

 

It went a long way toward helping me be less cantankerous than Aunt March.