| Sunny Side Up! August 8, 2001 �2001 by Kathleen Gibson Old Doesn�t Mean Unlovable I found something in our storage closet the other day. A child�s quilt�or the remains of one. All that was left were a few seamed edges, several fortrel squares, and the greyed batting, so full of holes it resembled badly-made lace. Useless, even for a floor rag. Still, I smiled� remembering� When our son Anthony was about four, I noticed that the baby quilt I�d made him was embarrassingly shabby. Of course. It accompanied him everywhere. It served as a toy carrier, a wizard�s cape, a tent over a chair, a peek-a-boo shelter, a tug-of-war rope, a pillow in the car, and a picnic blanket for snacks of Ritz and squeeze-cheese on the front lawn. All that, in addition to its primary function�a soft solace in the spooky dark. I offered to stitch him another, just like the first. I showed him a picture of how the quilt had looked when it was new. Jewel tones, squares embroidered with cavorting circus animals, a soft fleecy back� He thought long over my terms. I�ll make it, I told him, but you must let me throw the old one out. He couldn�t decide�not until the new quilt was spread on his bed. Its glowing colors and inviting warmth were too much for him. He surrendered his old blankie without so much as a blink of his baby blues. I, in turn, surrendered to a niggling inner voice that encouraged me not to take the irrevocable step of trashing the thing once and for all. Instead, I shoved it far to the back of the linen closet. The usurper never inspired the same devotion in my tow-headed child. He left it places. He didn�t seem to care if his sister used it. And he cried himself to sleep at night. I felt traitorous, but decided to wait out the trauma a little longer before giving in. I was in the kitchen when I heard him. Chortling with glee. �Mommy, mommy, look what I found!� I rushed down the hall. The entire contents of the linen closet were strewn from one end of the narrow corridor to the other. In the center of the jumble sat a child with butter-colored hair, positively glowing with delight. He was hugging a worn out, threadbare quilt as though it was a lost, live thing come home. He looked up at me, his smile illuminating his face. �You didn�t throw it away!� I couldn�t tell if he was laughing or crying with joy. I couldn�t separate the two of them again. I folded up the new quilt, put it in a trunk�for grandchildren, maybe. The old one would do nicely. Sometimes I forget that when we love enough, nothing new can compare with the threadbare, thin embrace of one who has been a faithful companion through all the stuff of life, from tug-of-war to picnic�whether you�re four, or eighty-four. If you�re loved like that, count your blessings. Only God could have arranged it. You can respond to this column at [email protected] |