From Nothing, Something
Many years ago, when I was barely older than Cora is now, my mom sat patiently by my side and taught me the art of knitting. I was fascinated. I knit a tiny scarf for my teddy bear, and off and on through the years I would pick up my needles and work a few stitches before the craft again fell into the background of my interests. Then one day in high school, as I looked at a ball of yarn in my hands, I became enamored by an idea: knitting is basically making something out of nothing. I was enthralled with the thought that I could take something that was otherwise somewhat useless--a ball of string-- and weave together the fabric to make something beautiful. I began to knit in earnest in my free time, making sweaters for babies, and scarves and blankets for friends and loved ones. Knitting became a way to bless others, to give gifts, to make from nothing, something.
Fast forward many years. We sat in a dark living room, an ice storm having taken out the power to most of our city. As we shivered in the cold, I looked at my one-year-old's closet and realized he didn't have nearly enough warm clothes. Buying more sweaters wasn't an option, and so I sat by candlelight, in the icy storm, and knit him a sweater. It became a symbol to me of how God had provided tangibly in what was quite literally our coldest, darkest hour. From nothing, something.
A couple of years later found me living in a tiny apartment on a college campus. Micah was working as a Resident Director, and while housing was included in our small salary, our previous home hadn't sold. In fact, it didn't sell for the duration of the time that he held the position. With his sporadic schedule, finding work for me without paying for childcare became impossible. I stretched every dollar to its limit. And then I discovered a way to open an online shop to sell my sweaters. I once again picked up my needles and yarn and began to knit, and it provided some of the income that we so desperately needed. From nothing, something.
As our family grew and we entered the toddler and preschool stages, there were often frustrating days. Tantrums and potty training and nap time battles filled the daytime hours. But once they were all asleep and the house was quiet, I would again pick up my needles. I would think back over the day's frustrations as I worked each stitch, and literally knit out the anger and the disappointment and the weariness of the day. It became my therapy, and I poured out my feelings of exhaustion and inadequacy into my needles as the pieces began to take shape. From nothing, something.
Now my children are older. I had expected that once they were in school, they would no longer want to wear sweaters I'd made by hand. But each fall they look at me and say, "What about our sweaters, Mama? Aren't you making them this year?" So I pick up the needles each fall and I knit them a new sweater for school. As I knit, I pray. About their hearts, about their minds, about the friends they'll meet this year. I pray for their conversations and their lessons and all the things they'll encounter when I'm not there. I fill each stitch with thoughts of them, with the hope that the love and lessons I've imparted will be carried with them into the day when we're apart. From nothing, something.
I continue to knit because I love it. But more than that, I continue to knit because for me, it has become my story of the five loaves and two fish. It has been my tangible, real-life version of the widow's oil. It is the most vivid picture I can imagine of what the God I know does best: making from nothing, something. I knit because it reminds me that sometimes all I have to give is string. But in the hands of someone skilled and capable, the little I have to offer becomes more than enough. Knitting is the parable for my whole life, really. And with each stitch I knit, it's a little reminder that even the places that I think are ordinary or unusable, in the right hands, can be made into something more. From nothing, something.
Fast forward many years. We sat in a dark living room, an ice storm having taken out the power to most of our city. As we shivered in the cold, I looked at my one-year-old's closet and realized he didn't have nearly enough warm clothes. Buying more sweaters wasn't an option, and so I sat by candlelight, in the icy storm, and knit him a sweater. It became a symbol to me of how God had provided tangibly in what was quite literally our coldest, darkest hour. From nothing, something.
A couple of years later found me living in a tiny apartment on a college campus. Micah was working as a Resident Director, and while housing was included in our small salary, our previous home hadn't sold. In fact, it didn't sell for the duration of the time that he held the position. With his sporadic schedule, finding work for me without paying for childcare became impossible. I stretched every dollar to its limit. And then I discovered a way to open an online shop to sell my sweaters. I once again picked up my needles and yarn and began to knit, and it provided some of the income that we so desperately needed. From nothing, something.
As our family grew and we entered the toddler and preschool stages, there were often frustrating days. Tantrums and potty training and nap time battles filled the daytime hours. But once they were all asleep and the house was quiet, I would again pick up my needles. I would think back over the day's frustrations as I worked each stitch, and literally knit out the anger and the disappointment and the weariness of the day. It became my therapy, and I poured out my feelings of exhaustion and inadequacy into my needles as the pieces began to take shape. From nothing, something.
Now my children are older. I had expected that once they were in school, they would no longer want to wear sweaters I'd made by hand. But each fall they look at me and say, "What about our sweaters, Mama? Aren't you making them this year?" So I pick up the needles each fall and I knit them a new sweater for school. As I knit, I pray. About their hearts, about their minds, about the friends they'll meet this year. I pray for their conversations and their lessons and all the things they'll encounter when I'm not there. I fill each stitch with thoughts of them, with the hope that the love and lessons I've imparted will be carried with them into the day when we're apart. From nothing, something.
I continue to knit because I love it. But more than that, I continue to knit because for me, it has become my story of the five loaves and two fish. It has been my tangible, real-life version of the widow's oil. It is the most vivid picture I can imagine of what the God I know does best: making from nothing, something. I knit because it reminds me that sometimes all I have to give is string. But in the hands of someone skilled and capable, the little I have to offer becomes more than enough. Knitting is the parable for my whole life, really. And with each stitch I knit, it's a little reminder that even the places that I think are ordinary or unusable, in the right hands, can be made into something more. From nothing, something.
