"Pug in a Mug"

A Pair of Wristers

Christmas brings out the knitter in me. Yesterday I dug out some scraps of Peruvian wool yarn I had on hand, and a pair of size 6 needles, and got to work.

My mother knit like crazy when I was growing up - sweaters, gloves, hats, afghans, you name it.  For a short period of time, maybe when I was 16 or so, she provided knitting lessons for women who gathered at our big mahogany dining room table to learn her skills.  She served them lemonade or coffee during these classes, and sometimes cookies, which relaxed the atmosphere and made it a social hour as well (or at least that was my impression from the outside).

My childhood memories are flooded with images of mother spending entire evenings with a knitting bag at her feet.  She would sit for hours on our rose-colored, lady-sized couch  - an heirloom, narrow from front-to-back and lower to the floor than usual - with a focused expression, her needles clicking off the seconds until they became hours.  The specified yarn of choice grew beneath her needles, taking shape as she directed its destiny.

Mother battled chronic depression when I was in elementary school, sometimes with severe effects.  She said knitting was a form of therapy.  It honestly seemed difficult and boring to me.  I learned the basics anyway, and practiced them while earning Girl Scout badges. My first major effort involved knitting a Christmas sweater with Scandanavian-type designs for Fritz when we were dating in college.  It turned out well, but was tedious enough to also end my career as a knitter.

Or so I thought, until the birth of our first grandchild.

That’s when the needles came out of hiding. Our sweet baby boy needed a Christmas stocking, and I resolved to make it using my mom’s old pattern from 1947!  That was 16 years ago. Many Christmases since I have tackled some sort of knitting project, including 10 more stockings made with that same pattern.

A month ago I knitted Christmas hats and cowl scarves for dear friends who live just south of the border in Mexico, and plan to mail them soon. But several factors collided simultaneously yesterday, and I surprised myself by knitting something else!  This time I shaped a pair of wristers (fingerless mittens) for a special someone. Looking back, it almost seems the spirit of Christmas showed up during the snowstorm that kept me inside, where some leftover yarn and empty hours joined my mother's legacy - to inspire a unique gift that wouldn't have otherwise happened.  

Faith, Hope, and Charity

Tiny air pockets lie trapped in my precious glass heirloom, while one side is imprinted with a date: “patented on Nov. 23, 1875.”  Artsy and elegant, this relic has been passed down through several generations of my mother’s family to me.

It is also broken.  An edge wears a noticeable chip that can’t be repaired.

Like this old glass serving platter, I am damaged and broken.  So are you.  Our imperfections may appear to be flaws or disorders – after all, humanity intuitively longs for the order and perfection of paradise – and yet I’ve come to recognize temporal weakness as not only normative, but also purposeful.

As I grow older, my own active function looks different than in years past. I also realize how figurative chips, cracks, and missing pieces steer me toward my true purpose - my destiny, if you will.  This has a lot to do with being.

Honestly, I rarely use my special platter to display food.  Rather, I cherish it more for what it is than what it can do. Around the lip, several words - faith, hope, and charity - surround three beautifully etched ladies representing excellence in character.

This glass work of art is not only a piece of functional table service, but also an icon of beauty, virtue, and endurance in spite of loss (the chip). I treasure it primarily because it has persevered through time, and boldly declares qualities of the soul that heal earthly pain and chaos.

I think of myself as a reasonably capable person, even at the ripe old age of 67, who can thankfully still accomplish (do) much. But even more, I am. And so I pray for inner beauty, virtue, and endurance despite inevitable frailties, and for a legacy of active faith, hope, and love.