thoughts on turning darkness into light
Life is a tapestry. That’s
what people say—the celebrations and struggles, the determination to hope and
love are like stitches taken to fill a waiting length of fine fabric. And those
stitches, bold or careful, bright or muted, tell the story of all those days.
I remembered this analogy when
teaching a quilting class last week. I demonstrated the needle-threading trick
I learned when I was young. It is easy and I thought—foolproof: With your dominant hand hold the needle
parallel to the ground. Drape the thread over the needle and with your other
hand’s thumb and forefinger grasp the thread that is touching the needle. Squeeze the thread between your fingers
tight and slide it off the needle. Holding tightly you can feel where the still-folded
thread is between your fingers. Guide the needle’s eye and hold it right above
where you know the folded, squeezed thread is. Pressing between your fingers, guide the needle’s eye down
over the thread.
Your needle will thread
every time. I told my class,” This technique is so dependable, you can even
thread a needle with your eyes closed, or in the dark. “
The absurdity of my
statement struck me: Who would thread a needle in the dark? Why would anyone have to thread a needle with eyes
closed?
That question on my mind, I
remembered the comparison of life to a tapestry. I love sewing metaphors and thinking of life that way, I knew
that threading a needle in the darkness that comes to us—often unbidden, often
feared—is a vital human skill. Everyone must thread his needle in the darkness
of dimming eyesight, the shadows of confusion, the blindness of threat and fear
and uncertainty. To thread the needle is to take up hope and courage, to forge
ahead, however blindly. Or, when
dazzled by too much light, overwhelmed, we may have to thread our needles eyes
shut. If we are to stitch on life’s tapestry through those bewildering moments,
we’ll have to thread our needles—even when clearly we cannot see.
This sense of darkness
happens to all sorts of people. I read a Time Magazine review of Mother
Teresa’s personal letters and their analysis that were published in a book
called, Mother Teresa: Come Be My Light,
by Fr. Brian Kolodiejchuk. The review expresses
fascination with Mother Teresa’s struggle with uncertainty and depression. The
article’s incredulity at the presence of doubt and depression in such a
respected and productive Christian irritated me. Some comments labeled her a hypocrite for urging others to
believe and give while she struggled in private.
My former high school
students are now adults. When they snoozed or studied in my class, I knew
nothing about what they would achieve or suffer. Now many are married, have
careers or artistic endeavors begun. Many are caring for families, many have
fought in our country’s wars. Many are facing difficulties; they are finding
themselves in places that are heart-breaking and hard, uphill and rocky.
I remember one such student
well. She won my respect one day toward the end of her senior year. As a member
of the yearbook staff, she was often called out of class to take a picture. This particular day, applicants to the
National Honor Society would be notified of the committee’s decision. It would
be my student’s final opportunity to join and she hoped to be selected. The
process was this: a veteran member of NHS would interrupt the student in class
by tapping his or her shoulder.
They were called out to the hall where they were robed with the banner
of the honor society. Wonderful,
thrilling—except for those who tried and didn’t make it.
My classroom door opened and a member of the yearbook staff beckoned, “Do you mind, Mrs. Nebbia? S__ (student) is needed to take pictures of the NHS tapping.” I nodded my permission, my eyes on the disappointment that flushed up my student’s face as she left her seat, snatching her camera and composing her emotions. She moved without hesitation; a generous and resolute smile came to her face and I realized that from deep within, she was determined to be happy for those selected, to think about them and their honor. Even if she were to be disappointed, she’d rejoice with others. I admire that sort of courage and spirit; to me it is the golden sort of thread with which we can stitch life’s story in dark moments.
In the hall she was
surprised with her own NHS cowl.
Someone else took the picture of her
moment of honor and she glowed with a strength that came from her steady,
unselfish character. That true
character lived inside her every day—on fair days, on quiet days when nothing
much was happening. But in those dark moments of disappointment, she threaded
her needle with a readiness too fast for sight or study and took bright and
costly stitches.
Now this student is facing
difficult circumstances. When I
read her blog and blogs of her classmates and students who came through my
class years later, I find accounts of bright moments of hope and faith stitched
on the backdrop of dark and unfair circumstances, stitched on the mud-like ground
of illness and death threatening. A moment ago, they were children, now the
details of their lives are universal and unwieldy. But their courage shows me how
to thread a needle in the darkness; their determination to hope and believe
inspires me to continue to do so.
Like my students, another
friend has been threading her needle in the darkness of several severe health
crises. Her suffering stretched for months and separated her from work and fun
and those she loved. My friend is a painter and a quilter; she dislocated her
elbow and endured months when she could not move her hand or arm. But as soon
as she could, she took up her needle and began to create beauty. Physical
therapy restored the use of her body, but her creativity restored her soul. She
told me that she planned her quilt projects while unable to move. The planning
and the sewing gave her more to think about than her own pain. The darkness of
the days was the background for the creation of something meaningful, lovely
and memorable.
The appliqué quilt was
stitched by hand as soon as she could move her fingers. While she was making
it, her niece became ill. In the dim hospital room, my friend worked for
uncounted hours, stitching her hope into a quilt, hope that the young woman
will fully recover and hang this gorgeous, handmade tribute to love and life
and courage in her own home.
Down again with
debilitating illness, this friend remembered the joy her dog, Lucky, had
brought to her life. Unable to sew, she planned and imagined a quilt that would
show his vitality. Stitching it by
hand, now, as she recovers lifts her spirit and strengthens her. And she is making something of great
beauty and meaning, something conceived in weakness and frustration. The detail
and artistry show a connection to life’s treasures brought to light through
much struggle.
My mother-in-law has
brought joy and artistry to our family with favorite recipes. She invented our
iced tea, taught me to cook sauce for spaghetti and meatballs, Thanksgiving
turkey, and apple pie, but she is careful about giving advice. Twice in the
years I’ve known her has she advised me and I have treasured both those bits of
wisdom. Years ago, she pointed out a mistake I was making with one of my
children. It was difficult to
hear, I’m sure difficult for her to say, but she softened the moment by adding,
“I’m certainly no one to give advice. I often felt as if I were groping in the
dark to know how best to raise my children.”
Her reflection surprised me
as I knew her to be both competent and successful, but I took her advice about
that child, treasured it, really. I loved, too, the honesty of the image. Her description of
mothering is not a negative thing; it’s not shameful. Searching through the darkness means that I admit my
condition, (I am not all-knowing; I’m
not all-seeing. I’m human), and I am
looking—my arms are outstretched with looking—for answers, instruction,
wisdom.
I have felt this way. Oh, I
know there are self-help books; I read my Bible daily, too. I listen to advice
and watch others’ successful practices. But how to put it all together— what
stitches to take, where and how big—that’s what I have to discover. And it’s
difficult to see that tapestry of my times, the one I’m stitching when I’m
running as fast as I can, when my next step is unclear, or I’ve stumbled and
beyond looks took steep. It’s even harder to see when loved ones are yearning
and I’m not sure what I can give or say to help.
Life’s path is blurry and
rushed and uncertain at best. Life requires us to seek and yearn through the
darkness, while we are hoping to make something clearly beautiful. When night
has fallen too quickly, life requires our threading the needle, stitching
bright and black with faulty, uncomprehending and hopeful eyes.
Last year we gathered together at 
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