patchwork quilts and constant threads

Under my bed are a dozen or more half-finished knitting projects. I started each one with vigorous determination, my mind fully intent on seeing this project to completion. I don't know what happens, but somewhere between the cast on and row 37, I lose that zeal. I've spent hours pouring over artsy books, bookmarking page after page, highlighting certain patterns. My pinterest board is filled with more projects than I'll ever have the time to complete. I walk the aisles of the craft store, fingering the yarns and the spools of threads. My lungs breathe in deep the scent of fabrics and woods and paints and ideas coming to life. I could waste my weekends away pitter-pattering through these aisles. The textures of the yarn and the hues of colors and the seemingly endless rows leave me in a state of wonder. There is so much to create. After careful consideration, I pick my project and my needles and my yarn… and two weeks later, it's another piece for the scrap pile that is continuously growing. Beneath my bed is a haunting place that screams of things left mostly unfinished.

Oftentimes, my life feels the same way.

The past week has been a juggle act of sorts-- learning how to balance life with Jahntzy and a life of school. It's been one of those weeks where my failures are screaming louder than my successes; an eat-nutella-with-a-spoon-from-the-container-and-let-it-smudge-to-the-corners-of-your-mouth kind of week (I ran out of dark chocolate covered almonds this week, this is the next best thing). Jason has been so sweetly kind and has given the kids and I a ride on the 4-wheeler back and forth from Bonnie and Ray's to the orphanage every morning and evening (I am currently living a short ways down the road from the orphanage in order to watch the little dude). Never once has he complained or grumbled when I've had to interrupt his day to give us a ride, despite the fact that he's been feeling under the weather. 

The days go something like this-- coffee at 5 am, children waking up at 6. A rush of breakfast and showers and clothes and where is Jantze's milky? Before long, it's 7:45 we are out the door and headed to a world of papers and jolly phonics and spelling words and good morning hugs. Only half of the homework is turned in and a tricycle whizzes across the room and too many names are on orange and why didn't I drink that third cup of coffee? After school and lunch come nap time. Here a little one sleeps while I sit in the silence, and mull over the past few days. Nap time ends and the children call from the porch and the afternoons are a rush of madness and chaos and fun. We pick two kids to come home and dinner happens and showers and someone picks a television show and before long the power is out and he's laying next to me, paci in mouth, "Time for sleep. Close da eyes." 

If I had to describe the past week in one word, I would choose torn. Trying to be Jahntzy care-taker while maintaining being Hannah has proven most difficult. Don't get me wrong, my world has been blessed with goodnight cuddles and conversation with some of the girls and kissing 10 little toes fresh from the shower and the hands that turn my face towards his when he's asking a question and I am looking elsewhere. This morning the iPod blared loud and the soap suds flew as two little boys sang along at the top of their lungs, "My God's love will see me through, You are the peace to my troubled sea." She laughed loudly and we burned the pancakes and the movie was cute and we almost broke the lamp that morning but it's all okay. It's been a beautiful week, friends.

But my patience is worn razor thin before I even make it to the classroom by 8:15, and my attention is split between reading with Judenal and watching the ball-of-energy-boy run about the compound. I tell them after nap time we will be back down, and I watch their eyes beg as the excuses pile high. Jovenal wants to read and I brush him aside. They want me on the couch for a movie, but there are worksheets to write up for the morning. I watch him slipping through the cracks as the lessons go over his head and he struggles to keep up and my heart plummets because I know I don't have the time I need. I say it in a rush "One more minute, one more minute," although it will be more than that. I spin from one end of the room to the next, trying to pull it all together when he asks me so innocently, "Hannah, why you go so fast?" and my throat burns hot and the words fail and all I can do is stare at him sadly. I want to do both, and to do it well. But I can't. 

We've had a busy week, with long "i" spelling words and jolly phonics songs and the kids excited about a week of Easter break. Monday afternoon I initiated a game of "Steal the Bacon" with the kids and ever since, it's been the afternoon go-to. Half the time, the kids spend more time fighting over who won than actually playing the game (I'm only slightly regretting the whole thing). Wednesday the day ended with Bello throwing a handful of dirt into Ricardo's eye (that was a real mess to sort out), Youseline kicked Rodenflor in the back, Wildaneise and Mayline fought over who ate who's lunch, and all the while Nana screamed from the depot while Jahntzy -the poor, poor child- tried to keep up behind me, calling, "Eena Eena!" It's also been a long week, friends.

It's easy to romanticize the days here. I am young and naive, struggling to find the meaning and the beauty and the hope everywhere I look. I search and I search, because surely it is here. I am a writer. My soul comes to life with every sentence formed, every paragraph transitioned, every comma and period placed just so. Late into the night I pour over the words until they fit like the pieces of a puzzle, spinning and playing and creating. In the writing, it's so easy to see the beauty. 

But more days than not, I don't know what I'm doing here.

At the end of the day, when my head hits the pillow and the lights flicker dim, I reply the hours through my mind… a book here, spelling words there, a conversation here, a quick email home, a game of trouble, practice telling time. I want to read with him, and sound out each letter. I want to find out, truly, why she's crying. I didn't tell her I appreciated her sweeping the classroom, or tell him he did a good job hanging the laundry. I can't make it stop playing, the list of things I wanted to do but never accomplished. And it's agonizing. There were so many things left undone. And in the silence, I weep. Because here in the darkness it all looks like scraps. 

There are different colors and patterns and textures and sizes; nothing seems to add up or fit together. It's a tangle mess of moments really, these lives we live. I'm sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching the rise and fall of his chest, haunted by all the snippets and pieces-- the faces and conversations and missed moments. All the ways I have failed. All the moments I could've done more. My thoughts are further now from this compound, to a place where a little sister is turning 13 and it's the first birthday I'm not there to make the pad thai and bake her a cheesecake. And I feel the sting of that so deeply, because I so want to be there too. I ache for Chirpy Chick days and feeding tubes and Munchie cuddles and Wheels on the Bus. I miss movie nights and kitchen dance parties and the dear ones I am so fond of. I feel like I am missing so much. And my already-torn self is torn even farther. 

Bits and pieces of my life are scattered in so many different places, and fragments... it all feels like fragments. 

One of my favorite knitted pieces are quilts, in particular I have long loved the patchwork quilt. I admire the beauty of it-- the difference shades and textures, the array of sizes, the quilt's overall erratic look. I find myself fascinated with the details, my fingers lingering on the seams of the blanket, feeling its ridges. It takes my breath away, the beauty in the way each piece -seemingly random- fits just right. There is nothing consistent about the quilt at first glance. To the naked eye, it is a makeshift of half-completed projects and failures and long forgotten ideas that were deemed unfit for use. But ask any knitter and they will tell you-- beneath the layers and between the pieces runs one constant thread that holds it all together.

On their own, the scraps are simply that: just scraps. But I know the One who is the constant thread. Amidst it all, He weaves Himself in and out and between our days and our moments. Each piece intricately and strategically placed as He binds all things together for the furthering of His kingdom. He fills in the gaps. Every encounter and every fragment and every moment surrendered can be lived to the fullest- complete with confidence in the One who will lovingly weave all things together for His glory.