Chances

I think my mom has given up on me. In one way. Maybe in more than one, but definitely in one way. Growing up, I was one of those kids whose mom made her clothes. Velvet dresses at Christmas. Cotton jumpers for school. Fancy dresses at Easter. Almost always matching my sister, and sometimes matching my brother.

I remember one outfit in particular. I wore it at least once a week in elementary school. I liked it for two reasons: it was comfortable, and it wasn't my brother's hand-me-downs. And every time I wore it, the other kids always said they liked it. I think I wore it out.

Like many of the talents and gifts my mom has, I've picked up some of my mom's love for sewing. But it has been a late development--and really, I just enjoy making flat things. Like quilts, blankets, and other things that only require sewing in a straight line. When I was younger, I told my mom I was never going to learn to sew. That never sat right with her. For two decades she has been after me to learn to make an apron. She claims it is an easy first sewing project.

An early memory I have of this "you will learn to make an apron before I die" argument, I recall telling my mom that I didn't need an apron because I wasn't going to learn to cook.

We know how that turned out.

And over the years, I'm learning that in most instances my mom is right. Including this one. As I cooked Thanksgiving dinner in my great grandmothers apron, a tiny tear started across the front. It didn't catch on anything, the apron is just threadbare. And now, torn.

I hope I haven't wasted all of my chances, because I'm about to ask my mom to give me another one. I'm going to see if she's got any apron patterns, holiday fabric, and maybe a little patience tucked away for her oldest daughter. I need an apron.

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Jesse Tree, Day Four

First Wednesday in Advent 

Readings: Genesis 6:11-22; 9:8-13
Gift: Glitter lip balm.

"Dear God, do not give up on us even when we forget you. Thank you for loving us enough to give us a new start every day. Amen." by Marilyn S. Breckenridge