My two-year-old daughter was missing. I’d been sitting in a lawn chair under the Georgia pines that summer morning while I watched her play in the driveway and must have dozed off again. I ran around the yard and through the house and back outside calling for her—not too loud because I didn’t want to call attention to my parenting dilemma. My voice got shriller, and I tried to squash my panic. I wondered how long I should wait before I called the police.
I finally found her rocking on the next-door neighbor’s porch. She’d heard me but hadn’t thought it necessary to respond.
I was sure I had some horrible disease at 38 years old, but my doctor insisted my fatigue signaled depression and prescribed medication. A few weeks later, my husband and I counseled with our pastor who advised we just needed more fun in our life. We lived 900 miles from family, so we invested in sitters and in date nights (not many—too expensive), and it was just what the doctor didn’t order. I tossed the pills.
A couple years later, after we’d adopted our son . . .
Continued at the Consilium blog where it posted in December while I was on my blog break. (The ability to comment/reply over there for me seems to have disappeared for the moment… 🙁 )
The newest grand wearing the dress my aunt crocheted for me…
. . . and my grandmother’s dress, knitted out of regular sewing thread with two steel needles by her mother( about 1909.)
My “grief quilt, –hand pieced and hand quilted during my season of infertility and after an ectopic pregnancy that stole all my “plumbing” and almost my life and after we’d given up hope for a family. This quilt graced the antique bed in our guest room–where we set up a crib when we brought our daughter home. I made a baby bear quilt out of its scraps. (Now we have 2 children and 4 grandchildren. I’ve renamed it my “hope” quilt.
The crib quilt I made out of its scraps–used by both my children.
In the stillness,