Blessings of peace and grace...

I bought a piece of fabric yesterday. And today, by telling you about it, I hope to honor the man or woman - or child - in India who made it.

The soft cotton fabric, dyed a faded green, caught my eye as I roamed the aisle of sale bolts, but when I touched it, it captured my heart and took my breath away.

A layer short of being a quilt, it is covered with tiny, even stitches that hold two pieces of fabric together. The surface of the top piece is cut in an intricate open design and then the raw edge of each and every hole has been turned under and stitched to the backing fabric. Hundreds and thousands of cleanly finished holes completed with ten times as many stitches - it's truly a work of art. I'm lost in questions as I touch it...

How did it come to be? Who made it? How old were they? How long did it take? How much were they paid? (How little would be more accurate, I'm sure.) Where did they live? Who were their friends? What did they eat when they went home? Were their stomachs full? What was their home like? Who taught them to make such fine stitches and take such care in their work? Did the repetitive stitching needed to complete each yard dull their minds with boredom or allow their imagination to fly and take them away from the dull, hard work? How many times did they thread their needle? How many times did they prick their fingers? Did they decide on the pattern of the cutouts? Did they decide the color and dye the fabric?

Who did they love? Who loved them? What were their dreams? For themselves? For their children or families? What did they believe? Were they happy? Are they still alive?

There's no way I will ever know the answers to these questions and, truth to tell, I'm not sure I could handle some of the answers if I knew.

So I touch the cloth and cherish it.

And I send blessings of peace and grace to the one who stitched the cloth. And to the One who made us both.