The small afghan lay folded across my
lap while I tied off the last threads of yarn. Old friend, I thought, rubbing my hand across the delicate surface,
it’s been quite a journey you and I have taken together. What started as a small project meant to keep idle
hands busy and a mind filled with worry at peace, was finally at an end. When I
stretched it out before me, my heart sank. The rectangle was distorted,
imperfect. And the colors I’d used looked hideous to me. Where was the soft,
warm blanket I’d worked lovingly on for so long?
When my father passed away a little over
a year ago, and caregiving for Mom’s Alzheimer’s became the new normal, I had
to have something to occupy my downtime in the evenings. I found several skeins
of different colored yarn in my crocheting tote bag, ones that were bought for
older projects that were already completed. A lap blanket would be a good
project. I could make it for my mother.
The blanket became a quest of love. Mom
was always chilly. It would be perfect to tuck around her as she sat on her
favorite spot on the sofa. Or perhaps she would snuggle with it in bed. I hoped
she would like the fact that it was made just for her and began to work on it
every chance I could. During television time with my husband at night, during
the many doctor appointments my mother had each week, the tote bag filled with
colorful yarns, a small pair of scissors, and my favorite crocheting hook was
always by my side. Somehow it was comforting that no matter where my mind
wandered, no matter how confused Mom was becoming, or worse yet, the fact that
her health began failing, at least my hands felt useful when I did not.
Then the worst of it had happened last
March. My heart felt as if it splintered into tiny shards. I’d taken my mother
to a high school play of Beauty and the Beast. She’d sung along and laughed.
She wanted a picture with the princess after the show. How could it have been
that I found myself sitting in a rehab facility one week later wondering if she
would ever recover? She seemed lost as if the dark recesses of her brain had
begun to close some of its doors tightly. I wondered where her speech and smile
had gone. I wondered why she slept so much. I wondered about the odd little phrases
she uttered; things that made no sense at all.
We’d found out that Mom had several
small strokes. They had affected her ability to communicate properly. Though
she had no paralysis, it appeared Mom started to give up. She couldn’t dress herself
any longer or even walk. Secretly I’d wondered if she was willing herself away
somehow in an attempt to be reunited with Dad. She slept most of the time as I
sat by her side. Then, more than ever, I’d needed my crocheting project. While
my hands worked at the yarn, my mind worked at prayer. I could look up; watch
my mother sleep without missing a stitch. Unable to do anything for Mom, it
seemed that as long as my hands were busy, I felt useful somehow.
My mother would awaken and watch me
crocheting. I talked of everything and anything in those moments to engage her,
to find a spark of the life she once had. Several times I spoke of the little
blanket.
I lost my mother in July of last year. I
had so wanted to have that blanket done for her. Though I hadn’t been able to
give it to her while she was living, I thought about laying her to rest with my
final gift. It still wasn’t finished.
Thinking back now, I’m glad the project
wasn’t completed because I was the one who needed it. It gave me a chance to
reflect on my visits with Mom. With every crocheted row, a new memory would pop
up. The tears would flow, but they weren’t entirely tears of sadness. I knew my
mother was reunited with Dad and at peace.
The blanket, which had been such a big part of
the close, quiet times I’d spent with my mother on her final journey, would
always be a reminder to me of her very good life and all the moments with her
during those last precious months.
As I looked again at the distorted shape
and the un-matched colors of the finished lap afghan, I realized some important
lessons. Life had been like that for my family in the last several years; not
perfect, but certainly workable. Sometimes our journey had been ugly and the
outcome, unclear much like the pattern I’d haphazardly seemed to crochet. The
mismatched yarn in each row reminded me that there had been differences in our
little family, and though colorful at times, it certainly was messy at others.
But much like the soft fabric, I realized that my Heavenly Father had given me
a softened heart toward my aging parents. And the warmth that even an imperfect
blanket provided showed me that my own imperfections could be used for
something good. No longer unattractive, the blanket has become a masterpiece,
one that I will treasure forever.
