Benediction

Last Friday morning I walked the dog over to my parents' house so I could use my mom's sewing machine to make some pillows for a friend's little boy. I chatted a bit with my mom and sister, and solicited lots of advice since I haven't made much of anything on a sewing machine since college.

I was both surprised and pleased at how easy it was to use the machine. As happens when I sit down at a piano, my hands just sort of knew what to do and didn't really need much help from my brain. All the little things you must remember to do, like holding the loose threads to the side so they don't get pulled under the foot at the beginning of a seam, like pressing the button on the side of the machine to reverse the direction and backstitch, I just kind of did them without thinking. Until the day I die, the sound of a sewing machine whirring away will be the sound of home. Mom made most of our clothes when we were kids, made her own clothes, and for several years made completely amazing "busy books" to sell at craft shows.

Mom left for work and Sis went to the last day of her volunteer daycamp counselor gig, and I was alone within the comfort of my mom's sewing room, in the peace of the house where I grew up. At some point I looked around and noticed a sheet of lined paper taped to a cabinet door, covered in my mom's handwriting, the arches and loops of it as familiar as my own face in the mirror. At first I didn't think much of it, assuming it detailed instructions of some craft idea or sewing technique. But as I got to the less-exciting stage of stuffing pillow forms into the cases I'd sewn, I had time to let my eyes wander. They returned to the handwritten sheet, and I realized it was a verse of some kind.

Maybe it was the thunderstorm that was rumbling outside. Maybe it was the cocoon-like quiet of the home that held me safe for most of my life. Maybe it was feeling sappy about sewing and seeing lovely words in my mom's writing. Maybe I'm just a drippy girl. But the words on that page? They were beautiful. I have no idea where Mom found them. Google, for once, wasn't super helpful, other than an indication that they come from an old African verse. If I could, I'd pull that sheet down from the cabinet door, frame it, and hang it in my house. Maybe someday I will.


Each thing that goes away, returns, and nothing in the end is lost. The great friend throws all things apart and brings all things together again. That is the way everything goes and turns around. That is how all living things come back after long absences, and in the whole great world all things are living things. All that goes returns.

Where you are going, go softly.

Aananom, you who have gone before, see that his body does not lead him into snares made for the death of spirits. You who are going now, do not let your mind become persuaded that you walk alone. There are no humans born alone.

You are a piece of us, of those gone before and who will come again. A piece of us go, and come a piece of us. You will not be coming, when you come, the way you went away. You will come stronger to make us stronger, wiser to guide us with your wisdom. Gain much from this going. Gain the wisdom to turn your back on the wisdom of Ananse. Do not be persuaded you will fill your stomach faster if you do not have others' to fill.

There are no humans who walk this earth alone.