Gifts Are Meant For Sharing

I never liked sleeping over at my grandmother’s house where there were no other kids. I enjoyed being at her house during the day — playing her piano, perusing photo albums of my grandfather’s war journeys, watching her clean her silver, eating the toast she cooked in a toaster then buttered, playing on the outdoor fire pit, petting her cats — but when darkness fell and I crawled into the big, spare bed all alone, I’d cry. I didn’t stay with her often; I only remember a few times . . . for instance, when one of my sisters was in the hospital.

I’d sink down into the sheets under the solid blue bedspread. She’d come in and ask me why I was crying, then head over to the closet. She’d sit in a chair, and pull a large box from the back of the closet. She’d gingerly lift pieces of colorful fabric from the box and tell me what clothing item she’d made for my mother or my Aunt Bettye from each piece of material. She talked about dresses and shirts and how the girls had worn them, and which ones were their favorites to wear.

She seemed ancient back then, and the stories she told like they were from hundreds of years before. As she gazed at the fabric and delicately turned it over in her fingers, she’d get lost in time, and I’d get lost in sleep.

My middle daughter, Emma, has quite the eye for style, and has been teaching herself to sew. My husband climbed in the attic a few days ago to retrieve a box of fabric my mother had given me, which I’d mostly left untouched. I tried my hand at sewing when the girls were little, but my patience for the skill wore thin pretty quickly. But Emma has found herself in style heaven with the ability to design and make her own outfits. Seeing her enthusiasm over sewing brings a smile to my heart. And it brought to mind those quiet nights with my grandmother reminiscing about days past.

Scraps of fabric, markers in time for her. The fragments represented entire childhoods, moments which might have otherwise been forgotten. I can’t remember a single, significant story she told me on those nights, but what I do remember is hearing a quiet passion in her voice for the work she’d created for the ones she loved. What I found to be boring then, lulling me to sleep, I hold in high regard now that I know what it means to create something you love for the people you love.

One day my girls will be able to trace the story of my life through these ramblings and those found in my journals. Maybe I’ll play songs for my grandchildren, sharing stories of how the lyrics were birthed . . . how I wrote words for my daughters, but others found hope in them. I thought this gift of words and melodies and harmonies were for my keeping, for my pleasure and delight. But they are my marker in time, gifts meant for sharing . . . just as my grandmother shared her talent with her children, then passed the gift of those experiences to me; just as Emma shares the joy of her gift without even realizing she does so.

We all have gifts and talents and passions that make the world a better and more beautiful place. When we hide them, when we believe them to be small and insignificant, we’re robbing someone else of joy and hope and courage {and maybe sleep!}. This is a lesson I’m learning the difficult way. I recently wrote these lyrics as part of a song for my daughters, one I didn’t intend to share anytime soon. However, they fit here quite appropriately, and maybe they’re just the fragments needed to inspire someone else to share their gifts today.

So shine on when the world turns gray
Don’t let the darkness hide you away
Be the ray of light somebody else needs
Offer some hope when they’re on their knees