Last Friday, my friend Michelle and I stopped at a few garage sales before going out for her birthday lunch. At one, I got this needlepoint. It is meticulously done. The frame is tasteful. I love it.
The woman running the sale, the very one now selling this needlepoint for five bucks, told me that her deceased mother had made it for her as a gift. I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shout, "For the love of God, woman, why are you selling this fine piece of art lovingly made by your own mother?" But I didn't. I bought it without even trying to haggle. It came with a few tufts of love, or their ghosts at least, still lingering. 
As I was paying, the woman said," I can tell that you're a good person, and you will give it a good home." She could already see me appreciating the piece, now tucked in the crook of my arm. "Got that right, Sister!" I said. Only not out loud.
As I examined the picture, once home, my mind wandered back to the fall of my tenth-grade year. It's strange how a few seemingly insignificant events get replayed again and again, as if they hold a secret. I've been toting a certain green sweater around for years, but it hasn't told me everything yet.
In high school I had a friend, Lisa, who rode my bus. Her mom was a combination of Betty Crocker and Betsy Ross. Her mom was perfect. One fall morning, Lisa bounded up the steps and plopped down beside me. I glanced over surveying her sea-glass-green sweater. It was the exact shade of her eyes, with three matching glass buttons across the shoulder. "Nice sweater," I said.
"Thanks. Mom just finished it last night."
I scooted down, propping my knees on the seat ahead, and sighed, thinking oh my gosh- this girl has no idea. She thinks this is how life is: you have a mom who knits you sweater after sweater and then sits and talks with you after school while you eat the snack she's made.
Lisa thought the sweater was just a sweater, but I knew it was evidence. Evidence that Lisa had occupied her mom's mind during each moment it was being knit. Those thoughts were the sweater's true value. On one hand I longed for such a treasure. But on the other I kind of felt sorry for Lisa, thinking, this poor girl has a lot to learn about how life really is. In the end, of course, it turned out that I was the one with a lot to learn. Isn't that always the way?
Which just serves to prove one of my top five mantras: Live and Learn. To do that we've got to struggle sometimes and to make mistakes. We must attempt too-difficult feats. With any luck, the tasks that defeat us will be larger and larger, leading to our growth.
Just promise me one thing. If someone makes you something by hand, something fine and lovely, please do not sell it in a yard sale for five bucks. When you die they can sell it, but until then keep it. Cherish the item and the one who made it.
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