Cotton

COTTON

Our oldest daughter was born on my Grandma's 70th Birthday. 

In this picture we are celebrating their 23rd and 93rd Birthdays.

Cotton.  fluffy, white, raw cotton

Five foot sack draped over a five-year-old shoulder.

Five-year-old hands grasping hard bolls, tugging out raw fibers. Texas sun scorching, endless rows

      of cotton.

Thirsty, painful, dirty.

Pickin' cotton.

Cotton.  Simple, colorful, thrifty cotton.

In the patchwork of my life, my Grandma is cotton.  

Soft cotton dresses.

     Embroidered cotton hankies.

          Faded cotton aprons. 

          

  

Cotton.  Versatile, durable, comforting cotton.

In all my growing up years, I never saw my Grandma wear anything except dresses.  Stitched with skill on an old Singer sewing machine, her dresses had plain, high necklines, modest sleeves, and long hems.  Attending church, shopping, gardening, housekeeping, cooking or camping, my Grandma wore a dress.  With the advent of double knits and other more modern fabrics, not all of her dresses continued as cotton, but I remember that even as a child, I thought the cotton ones were the prettiest and most comfortable for snuggling.  One of my favorite dresses of hers had a black background, covered with delicate pink roses.  She wore it often to church and special occasions.  With the passing of time, the colors faded to a softer hue and it was relegated to a "house dress". On the day that my beloved Grandpa, the light and hero of my Grandma's life, went Home, my Grandma was wearing this dress.  Throughout the day, my Grandpa regained consciousness several times and commented on different things.  One of the last things he said to my Grandma, with the look of young love in his eyes, was "I've always thought you looked so beautiful in that dress."  It seems that Grandpa and I shared a love and appreciation for cotton.

One piece of cotton, that I do not think my Grandma was ever without was her hankie.  Tiny scraps of beauty tucked into purses and apron pockets or safety pinned just inside the neckline of her dress.  With her handkerchief, my Grandma was prepared for anything.  A dirty face when you were headed shopping?  Out came the hankie, add a little spit to the corner, and your face was as good as new! Gardening in the hot Kansas sun?  Soak a hankie in the water hose, hold it against your throat for instant cool.  Canning vegetables in an un-air conditioned kitchen?  Out came the hankie to mop the sweat off your forehead.  Find a delicate robin egg that had fallen from a nest?  Gently wrap it in a hankie and  save it to show the little ones so they can learn to appreciate God's beautiful world.   When I was little, if I behaved myself, I could sit with Grandma in church.  She knew all kinds of tricks to keep a small child well-behaved during an old fashioned Holiness meetin' .  My favorite was when she would take out her handkerchief, fold it into a triangle, roll both ends to the middle, fold it over and pull.  Out would come two tiny "babies in a cradle".  This never ceased to fascinate me as I gently rocked the cradle and put the babies to sleep.  Eventually, during church, she taught me how to roll the handkerchief myself and make my own.  It is amazing how much I learned about God and His Word and His Love while I was playing with my Grandma's hankie.  I wish ladies still carried hankies.

But my favorite cotton of all was her apron. She had quite a variety that she hung on a hook on the back of the bathroom door.  My grandma's apron was not simply for protecting her dresses from spills and splatters.  Gathered up on the corners, it was a basket for freshly picked produce straight from the garden or quickly snatched laundry off the line before a summer storm.  When flapped wildly, it chased away those nasty "stinkin' starlings" that stripped the berries off her bushes!  The pockets were a treasure trove of safety pins, peppermints, paper clips, seed packets and the ever present hankie. They were also handy for bringing in a few eggs from the chicken coop.  I have often seen my Grandma swaddling a rescued bird or baby squirrel in her apron as she patiently fed it and nursed it back to health until it could survive on it's own.  When I was small enough that I had to sit on phonebooks to reach the holiday table, one of my Grandma's aprons tied firmly around my neck acted as a bib to protect my new Christmas dress.  As I grew, I was enveloped in an extra large apron to keep me from soaking my clothes as I stood alongside my Grandma and "helped" her wash dishes.   

     My most precious memory of Grandma's apron is when I was learning to tie a bow.  I was (and am) one of those few incredible people who just happen to be left-handed.  While being a leftie made perfect sense to me, it tended to confuse all the right-handed people in my life!  My family was fairly open-minded about my left-handedness for that day and age when schools were just starting to accept the normalcy of children who used the "wrong" hand.  My mom actually taught me to write before I went to Kindergarten.  She simply adjusted the paper to the other side and let me do my thing. (and by the way, I do not write "upside down"!  :) )  But when it came to teaching me to tie my shoes, everyone was stumped.  I COULD NOT get the fox to chase the rabbit around the tree to save my life.  Those pesky, slippery shoestrings WOULD NOT go over the river and through the woods and into the empty log or over the waterfall or any other direction I needed them to go.  Although determined, my tying attempts began to end in tears of hopelessness.  One day, my Grandma said to me,

     "Come here, Deedle-Dawn." (Because Grandmas can call you that and get away with it!)  "Today we are going to learn to tie a bow."

     She untied her apron strings from behind her back, pulled them around to the front of her and drew me in close, within the circle of her arms and those soft, wrinkled strings.  For the next  while, she patiently worked with me, her capable hands engulfing my clumsy ones, guiding them through the steps with her apron strings until I mastered the illusive skill of tying.  From there, it was an easy step to my shoestrings.  Now, in the remembering, I see that the most important things tied together that day were two hearts bound by love, across time, one leading the way for another.

     Due to a family tragedy, I am unable to physically own any of my Grandma's aprons, hankies or dresses.  This makes me sad.  However, I am continually aware that I have in my possession something infinitely more priceless, because amid the rich tapestries of velvets, satins and brocades, the sturdy denims, polyesters and knits, the coarse burlap of my life, I find that the most valuable patches, those woven into the very fiber of my being, are cotton.

Comforting, Enduring, Timeless Cotton.

While I agree with this 100%, I am going to do a little bit of what my Grandma used to call "splitting hairs"!! I think "ALL" is an absolute word to make an obvious point. I think it is time for us to admit that SOME cops really are bad, SOME blacks really are thugs and SOME whites really are racist.
We love and respect our police officers and what they do and what they stand for and well we should. Because of their sacrifice, we want to go above and beyond to give them the benefit of the doubt in all situations. But the fact remains, that some of the boys in blue are simply grown up bullies off the playground. While most are noble, honorable men who are there to protect and serve, some use their uniform as an excuse to victimize others. The 16 y/o run away who was "rescued" by 2 officers, so she thought.....until they raped her. The wife who was brutally murdered by her officer husband, who had threatened it for years. The cop who married my birth mom, then beat her senseless for several months until she could find a way to escape. No one would believe her because he was the local "good ol' boy". I have had my own run-ins with a variety of officers in routine traffic stops. Most were respectful and wrote me out the well earned ticket with extreme professionalism. A few, unfortunately, left me wishing I had a little more recourse to seek justice against them. Bad cops are bad, not because of their victims, but because they choose that out of the evil in their own hearts. The uniform becomes an excuse. Those that are good cops train for situations and react in response to a situation, regardless of race, gender, or class. They are good because they hold themselves to a high moral code and take their oath as a grave responsibility. These are the men and women in blue that I salute. Thank you for your service.
We say that we believe that not all blacks are thugs, but secretly we think that if a black person is not a thug, then they are the rare exception to the rule. And if those "exceptions" still express frustration, grief or anger over racial inequalities, then we consider them reactionary. Unfortunately, the sad truth is that a significantly higher number of blacks live in poverty and have lower levels of education and employment. They are more likely to have single parent homes or instances of family members raising children, instead of parents. They are also, statistically speaking more likely to choose lives of violence and crime. Thankfully there a those who have chosen to rise above the statistics and work hard for the good of all. While we have made great strides in our country in the area of civil rights, we have not arrived yet. Both sides have a lot to learn. A lot to forgive. A lot to let go of. When I was a child I longed to be black; not just darker skinned, but really dark black! How differently my life would have been if childhood wishes came true! While my outer skin has remained white, in my heart and behavior I have always sought to be understanding, as much as possible, of people with different skin colors and the situations they face. Blacks in our country have family histories that deal with issues I will never experience. This history has shaped their perceptions of whites and this country. It takes courage to forgive generations of injustice, especially when it would seem that at times there is no repentance for wrongs done. But I would humbly ask our black citizens to consider the many whites who sacrificed their lives and homes to fight for freedom and justice for all through the Underground Railroad, the Abolitionist Movement, the Civil War, the Civil Rights Movement of the 60's and the legal battles since then. Thankfully we now live in a nation where anyone of any color can choose to work hard, overcome poverty, live by higher moral codes and become anything they want. I would encourage each one to choose forgiveness and remember those times when each race left their comfort zone and built a better nation together.
When it comes to our own white skin, we seem to think that racism is limited to the Ku Klux Clan and skinheads. We refuse to admit that a lot of everyday white people harbor racism in their own hearts. The white pastor who refuses to marry a bi-racial couple. The father who tells his children (jokingly, of course) that if they touch a black child the color will rub off on them. The store clerk who follows a black person around, expecting something to be stolen. The upstanding businessman who referred to my husband's black friend and equal co-worker as "Brian's boy" or when the two of them were doing an equal job and the lady slipped my husband a couple hundred extra dollars, saying, "I know you are really the one in charge, doing most of the work." (Which was not true and my husband just split it with his friend after they left.) Most of these people would not consider themselves racist....and yet....... It is time for the white community to stop patting ourselves on the back for all that we have done and work on changing our hearts, not according to political opinion or talk show rhetoric, but as human beings. It is time for us to acknowledge that the wounds of our nation are shared with each of our citizens regardless of color. We are as much a part of the problem and the solution as the next person. I would challenge those of us with white skin to let go of preconceived notions of race relations and reach out. Get out of your comfort zone, forget about our differences, join hands as Americans, and work together to bring healing. Who knows? Maybe some of that color *would* rub off on us! And we would all be better for it.

In closing, I am reminded of how grateful I am that this great American Patchwork is not all one color! We are a woven pattern of black, white, tan, brown, blue, and green, all bound to life by the same red blood flowing in our veins. Last evening we were at our local town festival. We stood and cheered when our police officers went through the parade. We are grateful for their sacrifice and service. Later in the evening, we bought a delicious slab of BBQ ribs from a black lady in her food truck. She was wearing a Martin Luther King t-shirt that proclaimed, "Pray for Peace". I couldn't agree more.

Ronald Reagan We Are Americans

Lee Greenwood - Pledge of Allegiance (A TRIBUTE TO A GREAT NATION)

A Little Patch of Praise

This morning I opened up my Bible Gateway to spend some time with the Master and saw this tiny little patch tucked into the corner of my day!

"The Lord will accomplish that which concerns me!  

Your unwavering lovingkindness, O Lord, endures forever.  You will not abandon the works of your own hands."

Psalm 138:8 (AMP)

How beautiful is that?  

I am so thankful that God is looking out for all the details of our day.  The errands that need ran. The bills that need paid.  The grocery budget.  The impatient customer.  The "clicky" sound in your engine.  The spilled milk.  The  doctor's appointment.  The little league game.  The difficult boss.  The aging parent.  The flashing red lights.  The lost paperwork.........the list goes on and on.  Isn't it comforting to know that we are not randomly flailing around, alone, in the chaos of daily life?  The things which concern us are important to the Creator of the Universe!  Not only are they important to Him, He will accomplish good things in us and through us and for us in this topsy-turvey world.  We are held secure in His unwavering (what a wonderful word!!) love and kindness.  In the craziness of life, we have something solid to cling to.  Even in our darkest, most painful patches, He will never abandon us.  We are the work of His hands, the ultimate expression of His creativity, the reason He poured out Himself in willing sacrifice for our redemption when we sinned against Him. Because of His great love for us and His kindness to us, we can face this day, confident in the fact that He is weaving all the details of our lives into a beautifully intentional Masterpiece.  

Blessings!

Natasha

As we all know, in a quilt you need more than just the patches sewn together.  What truly holds it all together, keeping it from fraying on the edges, protecting the raw seams, and adding the beauty of completeness is the solid backing and the binding around the edges.  For extra strength and stability, decorative stitching is added over the entire quilt.  Because of the haphazard nature of Crazy Quilts,  instead of overall stitching, short decorative strings or yarn are threaded through both backing and patchwork at regular intervals, then tied off to give the needed support.

What a perfect analogy!!

We each have so many patches in our life.  People, places, and events in a myriad of colors and textures fill our days.  Sometimes life gets frayed and raw.  We need something more to hold us together in this crazy world.  For me, that solid foundation is spending time with the Master Quilter in His Word and Prayer.  His loving Promises and Guidelines keep me from falling apart, protect the raw areas of my heart, keep me focused on what is right and true.  On top of all that, looking back at the experiences of my life, I see the regular intervals where he threaded through a little extra strength at the exact times I needed it.  I know that if He is working such amazing craftsmanship in my life, He is definitely at work in each of your lives also.

So today, I want to share an extra "thread" with you to strengthen you through your week.

That is right!  YOU, my Dear Friend, My Sweet Soul Sister, YOU are an incredible Masterpiece!  You were created with purpose and perfectly equipped in Christ to do great things!  Even if you are in one of the coarse, dark patches of life right now, the Master Quilter is weaving truth and beauty into  your life every day, because He has amazing things in store for you.  

    

But you don't have to take my word for it!  You can look it up for yourself.  Grab your Bible or go to biblegateway.com and search for Ephesians 2 and read it for yourself.  Three of my favorite translations are the King James Version (so poetically eloquent), the New International Version (more modern language) or the Amplified Bible (extra explanatory phrases).   May you find there as many blessings as I do!  The Master Quilter is alive and at work in all of us and I know we can trust Him to create something beautiful out of this day!

Blessings!

Natasha

P.S.  Don't forget to take my "PB and ???" survey!!!

Re-Awakening!

My Dear Friends,

Welcome to Patchwork and Peanut Butter!

 If you are an old friend, you know this has been an on again, off again addition in my life!  Welcome back to what I hope is now an on-going expression of all the joys, triumphs, lessons and changes that have happened and are continually filling out my Crazy Quilt Life!

If you are a new friend, Welcome!!!  I invite you to go back through my previous posts.  There are not that many, but it may give you a little understanding of what I am about.  Hopefully you will find something that blesses you and you continue to be a part of my followers.

Now for a little catch-up!  If you look back at the dates, you will see that I began this blog 4 1/2 years ago.  In all honesty, I have had more changes during those years than all the rest of my life combined.  Some have been devastating.  Others have been breath-takingly amazing.  There have been moments when I have triumphed and moments when I have been crushed. All my big girls grew up and left home.  Our adoption was finally finalized. I started and failed at a business!  We celebrated life at funerals, weddings, graduations, births, holidays.  We added 2 sons to our family.  I got a tattoo.  We cheered at ballgames and theater productions.  I had a life threatening illness and survived a life-saving surgery.  My baby girl grew into a precocious pre-schooler. My husband and I are now working on our 28th year of marriage. A patch work of colors and textures swirling through the passing time. Through it all, I have always had a sense of the Master Quilter lovingly choosing the exactly perfect patches of events and people to blend together with His grace, stitch together with His strength, weave together with His healing.  Now as I sit here at my keyboard and look back over the past 4 1/2 years, I can more fully glimpse the Masterpiece He is making of my Crazy Quilt Life.

So, it is with a re-awakened sense of purpose and joy that I hope to encourage each of you to trust the Master and say with me, in the words of the Philosopher, "He has made everything beautiful in His time."  (Ecclesiastes 3:11)

Blessings on you all!
Natasha