Once there was a Maker...
(An imaginative story about hope and grief, making and mending.)
For my darling Indie Blue: May you always find hope in both the Making and the Mending.
“Mama, will you tell me a story?” She quietly asked, as she curled up in my lap at bedtime, one slow summer’s night, in her ever-adventurous sixth trip around the sun.
Fresh scents of wildflowers, we’d planted together in the meadow below, drifted in through wide-open windows, upon the warmest evening breeze.
Fireflies twinkled in the old pecan grove across the road—dancing together beneath a dusky sky above—and my heart was once again as full as my arms, as she nestled in close for a bedtime tale.
“Once there was a Maker…” I began softly. “Who wove the world anew...”
“Oh, Mama. You know this is my favorite!” she said quickly.
Then sweetly, and ever so proudly, sharing from recent memory…
“And, the Maker whispered their love into being with each and every stitch… didn’t they, Mama?”
She happily sighed, breathing in again deeply, while resting her head on my chest, as I continued.
“They did just that, my love…”
“And, as the Maker wove that world anew,
They whispered their love into art and song and story, too.
And, as they whispered, all the loveliest things began to take shape.”
“What kind of things, Mama?”… she whispered.
“Well, first…” I said. “Sol began to rise up with each new spoken day, its light shining out amongst rich, golden threads, and with its light came even more love and goodness.
And then, at the long day’s end, Luna shone down brightly as mountains began to rise up, in the earthiest of tones, blanketing the new world around them with the most beautifully woven stories ever spoken into being.
When Sol rose once again—as if by magic—rivers began to fall from high above mountaintops, settling among verdant green valleys below.
And those rivers brought life, weaving fresh new songs, with ever-wandering threads, reaching out across all the lands like the loveliest roots you ever did see, carefully carving out beauty with each new twist and turn along their paths.
And with every new lifegiving stitch the bluest of waters flowed across wide open spaces, even among those places far beyond the edges of the newly stitched maps, weaving in threads of truth and goodness along their way.
Tall forests of lush green trees grew up from rich, golden-brown stitches among low lying valleys below. And brilliant birds of every color, and kind, began to nest and rest and raise their young among the trees’ carefully woven branches.
As the wonder-filled story of that new world unfolded, so did the patchwork quilt it was being made upon. And the Maker saw that it was good.
Now with each and every stitch, the Maker imagined something fresh and new into being. And likewise every new being became a co-maker, imagining something fresh and new as well.
And, so it went on like this for many seasons and ever so many ages and epochs to come.
Sol happily rose each day over lovingly woven lands and Luna brightened the night skies that the Maker had adorned with carefully stitched stars. Each star with its very own name and story, and every one was known.
All the while, the Maker wove even more beauty and goodness and truth. With every careful stitch, they sprinkled wonder, as well, among the ever-growing quilt—holding the quilt close, as they continued to whisper the story of their lovely woven world.
For those they had created who could imagine the world well, they saw its beauty and loved the Maker who wove it all together.
But not everyone could see the world the way it was woven, from the Maker’s view. And those who could not, only ever saw the underside of things where light did not shine through, despite the unspoken beauty it held there as well.
For those who saw its goodness, towering trees provided gentle shade, and cool breezes carried bright hope across speckled meadowlands and gentle seas alike.
However, for those who could not see goodness, for what it was, the shade was merely darkness and the darkness held no light.
And so, as time wore on, the world began to grow weary for ever more and more souls.
The glimmering threads that had once been woven and stitched the world with such truth and kindness were now becoming tattered and threadbare and thin.
Now darkness began to grow, and light began to dim, and even the gentlest of souls began to forget the beauty of what was once the Maker’s story. And they grew tired of the way it was always meant to be told and chose only to see it through the dimmest of light.
Even so, the Maker was Love.
And the Maker was Good.
They were Always, Good.
And so one day, as a reminder of their love...
The Maker picked up the needle they had named Hope and began gathering together a handful of their most treasured threads in hopes of adorning the weary, woven world with their love once more.
Now since there was still much beauty and goodness among their well worn stitches, they took their woven world, held it gently in their hands and began to mend it—ever-so-carefully—with the threads they had named: Art and Song and Story and Community.
And with each and every colorful new thread they mended it with, the Maker’s woven world reminded the souls, who lived among it, of an even greater Mending to come.”
“Is the story really true, Mama?” she asked, shifting sleepily in my arms.
“It is, Love. It truly is...
Even now that this weary old world we call home is ancient and worn—and many have forgotten the very goodness that the Maker has woven into it—we can still see beauty, among the rips and tears and tatters, if we only look carefully enough.
You see, when the Maker uses their needle called Hope, and it’s been threaded with the threads they call Art and Song, Story and Community, then we can see both truth and beauty in the Mending, even in the most challenging of times.
And we know that it’s truly the Maker’s doing because when this happens, it stirs something deep within our souls. And when we look back on those times, of heartache and grief and loneliness—even years and years later—we can still see the visible Mending that the Maker has left upon our own unique stories.”
“Mama… Have you ever seen the Maker’s Mending?’ she asked ever-so-much more sleepily than before.
“I have, Love. I’ve seen it many times in my life. And each time I look back on those seasons, it’s a precious reminder of the needle called Hope, and I remember the love the Maker has stitched into our very being.”
“Mama, will you tell me a story about a time when you saw the Mending?” she softly spoke, while settling into my arms even closer. “I’m just gonna rest my eyes now” she yawned... “but keep talking, Mama, keep talking.”
“Of, course I will, Love…
Once, long before you were born, when your sister was still a baby, she was really sick—for a very long time—and my heart was so sad for her, because I love her so much and I wanted her to be able to heal so she wouldn’t have to hurt anymore.
But one day my heart was just so sad that I didn’t know what else to do.
So Daddy held her close, while she napped, and I took a long walk into town to think and to pray… and that’s when I happened upon a lovely little quilt shop.
As I wandered in, I noticed that the shop had ever-so-many bright and beautiful things and you could just tell that so much time and love had been put into each and every stitch of the quilts that were hanging on display.
And yet even though I was sad, I also felt a little glimmer of hope—as I walked a bit further into the shop—imagining all of the wonderful stories that inspired such beauty along the way.
Then, way in the back—far away from the busyness of the world outside the little quilt shop’s doors—I saw something so beautiful that mere words couldn’t begin to describe how it made me feel.
So I just stood there in the quiet for a while, marveling at its wonder, and it was then that I felt my tears welling up within me and I finally let them all fall.
You see, I stood before a picture quilt that was adorned with the loveliest quilt blocks I’d ever seen and each one gently held a colorful little cottage, with its very own lush garden, tucked in among its cloth borders.
And each cottage was warm and inviting The flowers and leaves in the gardens were made of lovely little bits of ribbons and threads. And each one was stitched with all the hope and beauty and truth that its very own maker could dream up while gathering it together with such love...
And I couldn’t help but think that the needle they used was called Hope and it had been carefully threaded with the threads called Art and Story.
When I saw it, I saw the Maker’s beauty and I knew that it was good.
And it stirred something so hopeful in me, that my heart was washed in my tears, and I no longer felt so scared or sad because I knew the Maker of all things was with me in my story, too.”
“And in the seasons that followed, I was reminded time and time again, as your sister grew and healed, that the Maker has stitched beauty like this into each of our stories, and we must look for it in the good times and the bad. Because, just like that beautiful handmade quilt, it’s a reminder of the Mending to come.
I was reminded that I was known.
And I was reminded that I was loved.
Because once there was a Maker...
Who wove the world anew.”