I don't sew.
Oh, it's true. I have sewn in the past. And a few things even turned out relatively similar to their intended form.
But sewing requires a certain precision that I seem to lack in just about everything. Most times I can walk or drive in a fairly straight line. Rarely, though, can I draw, paint, measure, cut, stitch or otherwise produce a straight line. It just isn't one of my abilities.
My mom, on the other hand, has a knack for things involving straight lines and equal measurements. They make her happy. It should be no surprise, then, that she has decided to take up the art of quilting.
First she made this pillow for my brother:
And this pillow for me:
Then she secretly worked away in the back room for months to create a quilt for me as a Christmas gift. It's made of flannel. And it has love written all over it, don't you think?
It's written here in the inscription, too:
And in the edging:
And in the colors and patterns:
And in all the tiny swirls of stitches, seen here on the back:
Most days you'll find it laying here, on my favorite chair, waiting to welcome me into warmth, into rest, into love:
And welcome me, it does. Several times a day.
Because sometimes love is made of flannel.