Addie's Quilt

I met a couple today at church.  They have grown twins who were born weighing just one pound each, and with problems that have lasted throughout their lives.  The mother, who already knew some of our family's story with Addie, agreed with me that going through something like that changes you forever.  I know it's true, because I still cry when I see preemies, or look at pictures from Addie's first months, or, on some days, just because the sky is blue.  I cried easily before she was born, but now I'm different.  I don't cry as easily over nothing, but once I get started over something, I can't stop.  I feel a deeper level of compassion for people in general, but especially for parents of sick or special needs children.  To be honest, sometimes I'll read a blog about a sick child and then have a hard time enjoying my own life.  I remember being in that hospital room, or receiving that diagnosis, or seeing my child stuck and poked and scanned and cut open, and I physically hurt for somebody else's mama.  Having Addie broke something in me that might never get better.

I'm working on a new quilt.  It's just a simple nine-patch, and the colors are mostly bright and ultra-feminine.  They should be--each piece is cut from clothes Addie wore her first year.  Some of her preemie clothes were so tiny, only a few squares could be cut from them.  She only weighed 13 pounds when she turned 1, so none of them is very big.  There's fabric with hula dancers, geese swimming, purple toile, pink polka dots.  Every square reminds me of an outfit, an event, a stage.   I cut those squares two years ago, when she turned one and I knew I'd never be able to give her clothes away.  I saved her most meaningful outfits, but the rest I cut into little squares, saving them for something, not knowing what.

And then one day right before her third birthday, I decided.  I want a quilt just for me.  I want to wrap up in something made out of all those little pieces, of memories from a very hard year that had more questions than answers, and a lot of hurt and fear, and a lot of joy.  I want to have something to eventually pass down to her, and to those who come after her, and be able to say, "God was faithful.  He gave you to me, knowing how much I needed you, and how much better off we'd be because of your life.  You are a gift, and this celebrates who you are."  

As the last couple years have passed, things have gotten much clearer, and much easier, and I don't cry as much out of fear.   Instead, I cry because I saw the worst predicted, and instead we have a miracle.  I shake my head in awe, and wonder why God chose to do a miracle for me, and know that because of it, because of her, I'll never be the same.  And honestly, I'm glad.  Sometimes broken is better.