Our Precious Tapestry

I have friends who say, “I can’t believe you enjoy scrap-booking. I hate it. You’re a better mom than I am!”

I hate it, too. I mean, what a waste of time. Who is really ever even going to look at them?

I let the pictures build up on my phone, and then on my computer, and then in the back of my closet. The task sort of hangs over me – it is something I am never caught up on – I am always behind – an ever present cloud. I wish sometimes I had never started. There are so many times I have thought of stopping – I mean, all the pictures are on an external hard drive. Isn’t that enough? Won’t Edith treasure the hard drive? Or FaceBook? Or Instagram?

This time, I’d almost convinced myself to stop. Surely 8 years of scrap-booking is enough! But last night I was reading a completely fictional novel, and they told how a police officer could tell this boy had been so loved – there was a scrap book for every year up to when he was 13. I thought, we are not so far from 13. I can do this.

Today I dug out the photographs and the glue, the paper cutter, the colorful papers and the fun wavy scalloped scissors I’ve used for now this my 9^th scrapbook. I cut and I pasted, and my heart went through an intense work out, trying to keep up with my aching shoulder blades.

Just this week Edith’s daddy sent me a video of her playing Rock Band, and I was able to go immediately to 2008 and find pictures of my baby child sitting on her daddy’s lap playing that same game. Later, Edith found the album open and started flipping through it, laughing in delight. “Look, mom! Look how silly I was!” Her face is mashed up against the playpen mesh with her tongue sticking out. It's hilarious. I can still feel now how hard it made us laugh then. I remember the smell of the rain and the comradery. 

I remember that was when I had a new friendship in my life. I remember just a few months later when Tom admitted to me that he was emotionally in love with that friend. The hard, mean look in his eye waiting for me to challenge it - and my cowardice eyes looking away. I can still feel the air being sucked out of my chest.

It's funny to me, the things that no one else can see between all those pages. Things no one but me will ever see, but every time I look, I see them.

I’ve lost friends this year – I was able to go back and open up old scrap books and photo albums and find them twisted inside the pages. I put my fingertips lightly on my now gone friend’s lips, and whisper to him, “There you are. Right there.” And I can hear him through his eyes, laughing back at me from the page, I hum again, “Come Monday.” He leaps out at me from the pages, very much alive. I found another friend and memories I’d all but forgotten – and again, in his eyes, now in this lifetime faded, I saw such joy and laughter. What was once just a random picture is now priceless beyond measure.

Today, I reminisced 2016. I saw my daughter blow out her 8^th birthday candle, with her face painted like a bandit. I saw her baptism again – my pastor and her with their heads bent in serious conversation – I can see the love pouring out of his eyes. I am so grateful for his unswerving devotion in our lives. I can remember things that are not even on the pages – him telling me that day, like a father, that he was concerned about the choices I was making. I can still feel my hurt feelings, but also that beautiful ache of knowing that he was right and that he loved me enough to tell me. And me making those poor choices anyway.

There are pictures at the beach in July. Everyone is laughing – playing poker. Beautiful night pictures of my nephew and my kindred friend and I, walking along the beach in the moonlight. It was a moment in time where I felt like my entire world was crashing down around me – these are the people that stood alongside of me in my darkest hour. My heart ached with rejection and fear of the unknown. I had a panic attack the morning we left. But all those details, you cannot see them – only I can see them.

I flip through the holidays and see so many efforts being made toward reconciliation of broken relationships. I can mourn the friendships, see that efforts were made, and know the relationships are still unmended. I see my niece and nephew, coming alongside me, even when it was not easy. The pictures are full of laughter and joy, but the stitches of the quilt are sometimes sewn in sorrow.

I looked at Halloween pictures – two beautiful girls I thought would be mine, but are not. My heart still swells with love when I see these laughing faces. And I also cry inside, because they cannot be friends anymore. I feel I cost my daughter a friendship. I feel guilty about it. I wish I could unwind time.

Thanksgiving Day, I see pictures of my dad and I shooting at the gun range. I see my father’s hands – I love taking pictures of his hands. In this picture it’s next to a case of shiny brass bullets. It reminds me of another picture I took the year before of his hands when he was helping Edith make her pinewood derby car on the drill press. And that reminds me of when I was seven and his hands brought forth a stuffed Sylvester cat from under the covers on my birthday.

What you don’t see is the person who took the picture – I see the sadness in my eyes in the pictures. We were coming unwoven that day. I can still hear the hurtful words ricocheting in the wind – still feel the pain – the confusion – the realization. Even though I cut him out of most of the pictures, I still see him in almost every single one.

I see my parent’s laughing so hard they are crying. It makes my heart sing. Ironically, on that very same day.

I see more pictures of my niece and my nephew. They are five years apart, like my brother and I. I see the adoration in her eyes - and his. I hope he never breaks her heart. I think if he breaks her heart, I’ll tell him to stop it. He probably wouldn’t listen. I never listen and we are a lot alike. But I do remember.

I see my daughter and my father toasting with whiskey and milk in wine glasses as they work at cracking open geodes. It reminds me of a story from before I can remember of when my middle brother went and got my dad and his friends a beer while they were working, then came out later with his own cup of water and sat with them on their break. Even though that brother is nowhere in this 2016 chapter, he’s still there, ever present even when not present, breathing out of other stories.

I force myself to paste in other pictures that I’d rather throw away, because this book is really not for me – it’s for Edith. I try to put in all the pictures of her family that I can - ALL the pictures of her family that I can. Time is time, the quilt is the quilt, and this is not the end of the story. It will weave into many more stories and times – changes in relationships and emotions.

There are still piles of pictures on the kitchen table, the task is not yet done. My shoulders ache and tears run down my cheeks.

Yeah, I hate it.