Interwoven
on blankets, keepsakes, and the families that shape us
From the blanket that swaddles us at birth to the one that covers us in our last breath there is an understated sacredness to this deeply human object. An enduring symbol of warmth, love, and family ties, our blankets and stories are often interwoven. We are shaped from the generations who came before us, formed for better or for worse out of the same fabric, patched together and lovingly stitched, knotted up and knitted, held together or sometimes unraveling.
Perhaps this is why I run for my beloved blanket stash at the first hint of cool weather. Each blanket I’ve made or been given holds a special significance. Warming both my body and soul, they are a collection of lovely memories to pull out on cold, winter days rekindling stories of who I am.
After my Grandmom passed away three years ago, my dad offered me the knit blanket that hung over her sofa- yellow, brown, and white knit in a circle like the sun. She was the one who taught me to knit. When I think of her hands wrapping the yarn around the needles, I think of the other things her hands did. Each Christmas, she made shortbread cookies with us. To this day I’m still uncertain why, but she mixed the dough at her home in Montreal, Canada, froze it, then packed it away to make the 1,200 mile trek to Roswell, Georgia. This has become a humorous story to retell imagining tiny logs of frozen, buttery goodness roadtripping across the country. Her hands wrapped my first easy-to-read Bible, held cards as we played games, and drew crayon stick figures in every letter sent to us.
Perhaps I remember her hands well because of her quiet nature. When she was thirty-five years old, she stumped doctors when she developed throat cancer despite being young, female, and a non-smoker. Her larynx and vocal chords were removed and she learned to talk by pushing air through the hole in her neck leaving her voice forever raspy, breathy, and soft. Shy one year of thirty-five myself, I recall her quiet resilience and fortitude as I hold her blanket, pieces of her that I didn’t fully see until later in my life.
As I think of my other grandmother, Nana, it’s hard to imagine someone more different than Grandmom. That thought always makes me laugh as I reflect on the women who have come before me. When Nana passed away, my mom gave me back a quilt I sewed for Nana out of my Papa’s old shirts. Nana and Papa lived life big. They traveled all over, but the place that contains all my memories of them is Sarasota, Florida. Together, they were colorful, bold, and fancy, sailing on their boat and dancing the night away at the yacht club. His bright, vibrant shirts reflected that life.
Thin, lively, and barely five feet, we affectionally called Nana the energizer bunny, but below the surface, she too exuded a quiet resilience and fortitude. At age four, her mother passed away and her father walked out on her and her identical twin sister, forcing them to bounce between aunts, uncles, and boarding schools. She married early only to find herself living in the dark shadow of an alcoholic. When my mom was twelve years old, my Nana packed up her children in the middle of the night and fled. Years later, she met and married my wonderful Papa. That provided needed stability, but it was still a long journey. It’s no wonder she found peace in the expansive, foamy ocean. The teal colors of her quilt remind me of her zest for life and the ocean she loved.
When my parents were three months pregnant with me, their firstborn, they joyfully left behind the cold snow of Canada for the humid sunshine of Georgia. On the exact date they moved, my mother-in-law was in grueling labor with her firstborn, a son, in Michigan. She penned a letter detailing the birth and her new motherly love then tucked it away for his 18th birthday. When the time came, her teenage son was mildly horrified when it was read in front of his new girlfriend. Luckily for him, that story ended well.
Once married, I found myself beholding new stories and traditions as two family trees merged. Half of my husband’s family has deep roots in rural North Carolina and Virginia. His childhood trips to the family lake house meandered past miles of waving tobacco fields. When my mother-in-law asked if I would be interested in a batch of unfinished quilt blocks from my husband’s great-grandmother, I eagerly accepted. I sewed them together when I was bulging with our firstborn. This quilt reminds me that we may not always finish what we start, but by the grace of God, our labor is not in vain.
I find myself treasuring my past more as I grow older, yearning to keep the memories alive for my children. These keepsakes provide links to a grander story helping me recall the intangible love, strength, and faith passed down as “one generation commends his works to another.”1
All of our unique family stories bear witness to the kindness of God even in the midst of challenging circumstances. They remind us ultimately of God’s faithfulness and our eternal inheritance. Welcomed into the family of God, we are covered in his mercy and blanketed in his love. Jesus is the thread that stitches our layers of brokenness and joy making our lives beautiful.
This essay was first published in Commonplace: In the Quiet of Winter in January 2024. It’s one of my favorite pieces of creative writing and I’ve wanted to share in this space for some time. Winter solstice (which is coming up on Sunday) seemed like the perfect time to do so. On the longest night and darkest day of the year, may you recall the memories, keepsakes, and family members who have shaped you and may this bring a spark of light to you this winter season.
*Note: Some of the dates/ years would be different had I written it now (ex: I’m 36 now- not “shy one year of thirty-five”), but I kept every word the same since that was the agreement in publishing with DOP.
Psalm 145:5
Beautiful❣️