I lean heavily toward thrifty—from some innate frugality, from a few years of going without, and, I suppose, from being the child of children of the Great Depression. In the winter we keep the house on the cool side, but there are extra sweaters on the pegs by the door and afghans in case you feel chilly. My favorite is a faded worn chenille throw. As often as not, I bring it along though there is a perfectly fine throw on the back of every chair already. It connects me. I love the texture of it, the ridges feel…well…right. It feels faded; its softness and wornness belie strength in the fabric. The texture reassures me, almost nurtures me. Perhaps it’s a bit odd, perhaps it isn’t, how the feel of something against the back of your hand on a cold winter’s night can both bring you to a place of comfort and hold your heart in the calm of a cold winter’s morning of the past.
I grew up in the 1950s in the same house my mother grew up in. The house had a furnace with a single grate—about a five-foot square in the archway that separated the living room from the kitchen. I hadn’t thought about it for years, but as I sat in quiet the other morning I had a vivid recollection of my mom on frigid winter early mornings waiting for the coffee to finish perking, standing on the grate, quiet, the rising heat billowing her bathrobe around her. Her chenille bathrobe—soft and faded and comforting.
Things have changed of course. I’m older now than my mother was then. She doesn’t wear chenille bathrobes anymore, and the house she lives in now has heat along the baseboard of every room. But while it’s changed, it’s the same. There are unexpected things that remain constant in our life—little things that quietly become part of our fabric, providing comfort through memory and reassurance through presence.
The feel of the chenille throw is how I’ve experienced faith for the past couple of years. It’s just there, and it’s been there for a long time. In the weaving of my life, it’s part of the warp—not always noticeable but providing strength. It might look a bit frayed, a bit faded, but is stalwart, is constant, is protection against a cold world.
“As the rain hides the stars, as the autumn mist hides the hills, as the clouds veil the blue of the sky, so the dark happenings of my lot hide the shining of thy face from me. Yet, if I may hold thy hand in the darkness, it is enough, since I know, that though I may stumble in my going, Thou dost not fall.” traditional Gaelic translated by Alistair MacLean
Requests
I grew up in the 1950s in the same house my mother grew up in. The house had a furnace with a single grate—about a five-foot square in the archway that separated the living room from the kitchen. I hadn’t thought about it for years, but as I sat in quiet the other morning I had a vivid recollection of my mom on frigid winter early mornings waiting for the coffee to finish perking, standing on the grate, quiet, the rising heat billowing her bathrobe around her. Her chenille bathrobe—soft and faded and comforting.
Things have changed of course. I’m older now than my mother was then. She doesn’t wear chenille bathrobes anymore, and the house she lives in now has heat along the baseboard of every room. But while it’s changed, it’s the same. There are unexpected things that remain constant in our life—little things that quietly become part of our fabric, providing comfort through memory and reassurance through presence.
The feel of the chenille throw is how I’ve experienced faith for the past couple of years. It’s just there, and it’s been there for a long time. In the weaving of my life, it’s part of the warp—not always noticeable but providing strength. It might look a bit frayed, a bit faded, but is stalwart, is constant, is protection against a cold world.
“As the rain hides the stars, as the autumn mist hides the hills, as the clouds veil the blue of the sky, so the dark happenings of my lot hide the shining of thy face from me. Yet, if I may hold thy hand in the darkness, it is enough, since I know, that though I may stumble in my going, Thou dost not fall.” traditional Gaelic translated by Alistair MacLean
Requests
- Pray we come to recognize our gifts and, in knowing them, hew them into ministry to bring God’s presence to Friends and to the world.
- Pray with CPT for healing and reconciliation between indigenous and settler communities in and near Caledonia, Ontario, on Six Nations Territory. Last week a settler youth drove his car into Kanohstaton, a house symbolizing reclamation of lands by the Six Nations.
