Because We Are Woven...
We can also be mended.
(Photo of a little, woven “Osnaburg Heart”…
Hand-drawn, and cut out, by sweet Indie Blue for a special project she was helping me with in early spring. “Mama, do you think this looks enough like a heart?” she asked thoughtfully, as I glanced up from my sewing. “Oh darling, I think it looks like much more than just a heart, I think it looks like love!” I replied, and her little nine-year-old heart beamed.)
Because We Are Woven…
A little more than a hundred years ago two baby girls were born, four months and just shy of four hundred miles apart, in the midwestern United States. Their stories both began—as did so many others in the early 1900s—with humble roots and hardworking families. However as they grew and learned, loved and navigated their own unique journeys, each girl's life would weave a very different story.
Even so, one day they would both become talented makers, mothers, and grandmothers and many years later their separate paths would lead them each, more than 1,700 miles from their midwestern roots (both by way of California), to the Pacific Northwest where they would live, for a short while, in the same quiet town, just a few miles apart.
Although they would never meet in their lifetimes, one day a handful of the most precious pieces of each of their legacies would be carefully gathered up, lovingly mended, and gently stitched together anew, by their children's children, into a living patchwork-of-a-story full of faith and hope, love and loss, laughter and tears, brokenness and truth, all the while cultivating a legacy of beauty and healing along the way.
And so, my story begins not with my first breath, but with each of theirs...
My paternal grandma was born one Sunday, late in the Spring of 1912, in a small railroad town in Iowa, when flowers were in full bloom. She was their firstborn child and they named her Grace. She would one day become the eldest of seven children and family was important to her. So in turn, her life's story would become one of both faithfulness and devotion as a wife, mother, and grandmother.
Although as a young girl she was only ever able to attend school through her early teen years, sheer determination, and will, would inevitably inspire her to become a passionate lifelong learner, wordsmith, and lover of stories.
Her life's journey would lead her up north to Minnesota and eventually out west to the ever sunny coast of southern California. Along the way, she would have four children with the love of her life, and they would raise them together, working hard to provide them with the educational opportunities she hadn't been afforded in her own youth. Grace was the quintessential housewife of the 1940s, 50s, and 60s. She lived with a purpose, was prayerful and steady, and thrived on routine.
As a widow, in the early 1970s, she would leave California behind and move up north to buy a small farm near her youngest sister. There they would live just down the road from each other, in a peaceful rural community, where the Rogue River winds its way through the beautiful mountain valleys of southern Oregon. As luck would have it, for me, Grace's youngest of two sons would also make the move, with her, to take a break from his often-hectic life back home in California, and to help care for both his mother and their shared farm.
Throughout the years, much like her spring birth, Grace's life would weave a beautiful and often quiet story of unfolding promises. It wasn't perfect by any means, because what life ever is? Still she lived with integrity and hope, knowing that one day, when all was said and done, she had done the best she could, with what she had, to leave a legacy of love for her family.
As every page in a story has two sides, my maternal grandmother, on the other hand, was born on the cusp of Autumn in 1912, as once verdant leaves began to change their colors, blanketing the ground with unspoken beauty, in a small railroad town in Kansas. She would be the firstborn of three daughters and they named her Juanita.
She was a wildflower that bloomed far ahead of her time, always dreaming of bigger things and better days ahead and yet, as her young life was often hard and unstable, she learned early on that survival was her only option. She was smart as a whip although family obligations—as with many young people in her time—limited her to only finishing school through her early teens.
Savvy, resourceful, and free spirited her life's journey would lead her on an ever-wandering path, always in search of a better life and a brighter future for herself and those she loved. She moved out west, married young, and despite all her hopes and dreams she soon found herself working alongside other poor migrants in the dusty fields of central California.
Still she was a Silver-tongue—and an often vibrant storyteller—so the visible side of her life's story would become one of imaginative fables and colorful tales to help her cope with the heartbreak, brokenness, and unspeakable trauma her early years and first marriage brought with them. As a young woman, she would come face to face with decisions that no one should ever have to make and the choices she would make along the way would quietly haunt her for the rest of her life.
And so, however hard she tried to keep her life story bound together, cleverly hidden behind her carefully woven strands were often broken, tattered, and threadbare patches that threatened to break with each and every move.
With few choices set before her, she continued to navigate her path reinventing herself as she went. She walked away from her old life, found herself divorced, and married again, only this time for love. She would have four children, of whom many people she would meet along the way likely thought were her first and only, and so to protect both her heart and her story she would quietly bear her grief alone.
Many years later, as the matriarch of her family, she would eventually follow more work and fresh opportunities up north to a sleepy little southern Oregon town. As luck would have it, again for me, her youngest daughter would soon join her there to begin a new life for herself, and her own young son, as well.
Much like her early Autumn birth Juanita's life would weave a vivid story full of rainbow colored leaves, only ever showing the parts she wanted others to see.
She was dynamic and bold, clever and inventive, and she truly believed that with each new road, or house, or town, came a new opportunity to start fresh and finally get it right. Resilience was her saving grace, and although her story was never one of stability she would spend her entire life trying to make up for the past choices she had so desperately tried to leave behind, hoping that when all was said and done, she had done the best she could, with what she had, to make a better life for those she would leave behind.
Sixty-two years to the day after baby Grace drew her first breath, I was born in a small riverside community in southern Oregon. As a young child I was told that I had been given two special gifts on that day.
The first gift was that I had arrived exactly when my dad predicted I would, on his mom's birthday. My Grandma Grace always said I was her favorite birthday gift and likewise, to this day, she is still my favorite gift as well.
The second gift was a name. Feeling as though they could not honor one of my grandmothers without honoring the other, they named me after Juanita. I honestly wish I could have appreciated her gift more growing up. Thankfully though, looking back now, I’m able to see that in spite of the many challenges our family has faced throughout the years, our shared name may have been the strongest thread that tethered me to both my grandmother, and our collective family story, but it was far from the only thread.
As a curious child I would ask a million questions about both of my parents' branches on our family tree and it was with each new story that I collected (no matter how starkly different their lives might have been), that I began to realize just how many more unique gifts these incredible women have, in fact, shared with me. Many precious threads of which have been carefully woven throughout my own story, throughout my own life, reminding me daily that I would not be who I am, if it were not for each of them.
In honoring my grandmothers, the most intimate details of their life stories, both happy and heartbreaking, beyond public knowledge, are not mine to tell.
However, what I am able to share is that, through both my own life's journey and by exploring my family's past, I am reminded time and time again that one’s life story is rarely ever exactly as it seems, on the surface. Still, we each have a choice in the paths we choose to take, the gifts we choose to pass on, and the authentic story we choose to live out.
Regardless of how uniquely our stories may begin or end, each and every one of us will inevitably walk through seasons that are beautiful and vibrant, while other times despite our best efforts they are laid tattered and threadbare, and in the midst of it all, we simply have to keep living and learning, while doing the best we can with what we have, to leave our own little corner of this world a more beautiful place than when we found it.
And lastly, dear reader, no matter where our life journeys may take us, or what may one day become of our stories, the most beautiful thread of truth I have come to know is that... Because We Are Woven, We Can Also Be Mended.
Isn’t it wild how family stories unfold? It was good to learn more about your background, Juanita. What a beautiful thing to share these strong connections with both grandmothers!