Knitting

On an whim I decided to learn to knit.

It started a few days ago when I was playing around on the internet and stumbled across a blog about a girl who knits dishcloths. Why in the world would that catch my attention? I have no idea, but suddenly I had to knit dishcloths.

And then I began to consider the possibilities: scarves, hats, sweaters. It even occurred to me that if we ever bought a farm (like I've been dying to do for years) I could own some sheep. And spin my own yarn.

Yeah, that's how my mind works when I'm alone.

That was Monday. This morning when I woke up it was a distant memory. Until I ran into a friend and found out that she knits. Well, that did it for me. It was as if fate were tellilng me I was meant to knit. I went straight to Hobby Lobby. I was too embarrassed to tell them that I had no idea what I was doing (why do I always pretend that I know what I'm doing even when I don't?). So I picked my favorite looking yarn and bought the needles that the package told me it was sized for.

I spent the remainder of my day rewatching the same youtube video, trying to figure out how in the world the girl in the video made it look so easy. I cast on, and then as I attempted to knit, I unraveled what I had cast on. Again and again and again.

I eventually figured it out. And then my obsessive-compulsive personality took over, and I knitted row after row after row. I have no idea what I'm making, if anything. But I'm knitting.

The entire time I sat there knitting I thought about my grandmother. She didn't knit, at least as far as I know. But she did crochet. Blankets. Shoes. Christmas tree ornaments. Christmas stockings. Doorknob decorations. Plastic-egg filled bunnies for Easter. When Grandma was sitting, she was usually crocheting and humming hymns. That's how I remember her.

When I was a child I would often spend a week with Grandma in the summer. One summer she taught me a basic crochet stitch. I think it's called a hook and loop, but I don't really know. I practiced it for about five minutes before I decided I had perfected it and was ready for the next lesson. She showed me how to turn it. I tried, but after a few failed attempts I decided that maybe it wasn't for me and ran outside to play. That was the extent of my needlepoint lessons as a child.

If only I could sit with her now.

I walk into Laila's room and pull out the baby blanket she crocheted for me. The stitching is perfect. I think about all the loops, all the twists, all the pulls that must have gone into that blanket. I am amazed.

I am more amazed when I consider that Grandma made this for me when I was just a child. She knew she wouldn't be around to see me have children, so she made the blanket and gave it to my mom to give to me at my baby shower. She knew she wouldn't be there to hear me say thank-you or to hear everyone admire the beautiful work she had done. But she made it anyway. She made it because she loved me, and I beleive that was her way of expressing her love not only for me but for the children I would someday have.

And then, unexpectedly, the tears come. I wonder if we ever completely get over the loss of loved ones. It pops up so unexpectedly--a dream that's so vivid it makes me cry. When the gardenia bush outside my back door blooms in May. The taste of my mom's vegetable soup, made just like Grandma made hers. When I sit down to read my Bible. When I wash dishes. When I go through the mundane of life. Grandma's life still influences me daily, nearly fourteen years after she passed away.

I offer up a thanks to God for giving me such a wonderful role model. And then, as I so often do, I ask him to tell Grandma how much I love her--that I miss her, and that I think, in some ways, I am becoming a little more like her every day. I don't really think Grandma can hear me. But I know God can. And I know that she is with Him. So maybe He'll deliver the message.

And who knows. Maybe I'll learn to crochet.