My husband’s eldest brother and his wife became the keepers of the family photos after my in-laws passed away. Bless their hearts, they’ve been sorting those photos for years now. Every once in a while, a thick envelope will arrive in our mailbox and we’ll be shocked that they’ve found more photos to send us.
This one arrived last week. I took a photo of it with my cell phone and texted it to our kids with a message that said, “Who knew our family would grow from just the three of us to 21?” And then the comebacks began—jokes about the hair, the glasses, the suit jacket, the car. We all had a good laugh. But I stuck that photo up on the fridge so I could really take my time looking at it because there was a little patch of Holy Land there for me - a glimpse of sacred space beyond the giant glasses and the ‘80s feathered hair that no one else on this planet would notice.
I saw a very uncertain me, tucked into the safety of David’s side, my arms wrapped almost desperately around our first child, and the quilt I swaddled so tightly around him. That quilt was handmade by my mother - the design, a puppy tucked under the covers, its ears all floppy and furry.
My mom’s health was already failing at that point. Sewing, even though she loved it, was getting difficult for her, but she was so excited for this Christmas baby, our first, to arrive.
I’ve been working on baby quilts for my new grandsons when I get home from work and feeling slow and overwhelmed and like I can never get anything finished fast, like I used to with ease. I’ve been feeling like an ineffective grandma. But when I saw that quilt, I felt like Mom was standing next to me at the fridge, assessing the photo. I imagined her saying, “I think Blake was six months old before I finished that quilt. You’re doing just fine. One stitch at a time. Right, Honey?”
That thought made me smile because when she taught me to embroider, I would routinely get super frustrated and toss my hoop to the other end of the sofa with a huff, and she would say, “Don’t focus on the whole project, just take one stitch at a time.” It seems that even now, when I’m the age she was when she was giving me that advice, I still need to hear it.
That little baby boy in the photo was born on a wintry December night. Just before his birth, I had the assignment of playing Mary in a reader’s theater for our church’s Christmas party. I teetered, top-heavy, on that tall stool as I read my part, so uncomfortable, yet so grateful it wasn’t a donkey, and after that night, I thought a lot about Mary, especially as we took our new baby boy home from a modern hospital to our humble little home and set about learning to keep the heavenly little miracle alive.
From the moment he came into the world, a weight of responsibility lit upon my shoulders. I still see it there, months later in the photo, in the set of my shoulders, in the crookedness of my smile. My entire posture says, “I don’t know what I’m doing, but this is my child, and I will not let go.” Is that how Mary felt? Her circumstances were infinitely, eternally, different from mine. She knew she would be required to let go of her precious Son. But in the beginning, as she wrapped Him up and kept Him safe, I imagine she felt uncertain, just like I did.
My baby boy will be 35 next week. He and his wife just added their 5th little boy to their family. How did 35 years pass so quickly? I have been blessed to watch him grow and marry and have a family of his own.
When Mary’s baby boy grew up, she gave Him over to us all to fulfill the purposes the angel spoke of at the beginning; to teach and love and heal and, ultimately, atone for the entire world. For each one of us.
Isaiah said, "Hast thou not known? Hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the Lord, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither is weary? He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might, he increaseth strength."
Our learning curve here on earth is short - it doesn’t seem short from the beginning, but from the other end of it, we realize just how much we learn and change and grow while we’re here, and because of Mary’s baby boy, at the end of that short arc, we can return to our Heavenly Home.
As I stand at the fridge and ponder the photo, I’m not so frustrated by my slower pace. I imagine Mom and Mary looking over my shoulder at that young family, saying to me, “There’s no need to rush. This earth experience goes faster than you can know, so just enjoy the seasons as they come, one stitch, one day, at a time. Mary’s baby made the timeline sure for us all.”
So you see why this old photo is a tender mercy for me - a personal patch of holy ground. I’m leaving it on the fridge throughout Christmastime to remind me to enjoy every single stitch.
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