“Little country church on the edge of town…” (Love Song, 1972)

In the Bible Belt, there are churches everywhere. Carillon bells ring through the hills and valleys.

We try to attend worship even if we are away from home on Sundays. We caught the service at the church down the gravel road from our rental.

If this sanctuary was a quilt; it would be considered a modern one. The bold geometric lines point towards Heaven. The solid green and red window panes play against the negative space. But this church was built in 1830. That’s between the War of 1812 and the Civil War. I wouldn’t have believed it if not for the dates on the tombstones in the church yard. And even the fact that there was a church graveyard proved its era.

When I told my grown kids that I had started blogging, they were startled. They considered me to be the last holdout, the Luddite of all generations. But they would joke that should we find ourselves stranded on a desert island, I would be their ace in the hole. My husband has been called McGyver, so we would be the team that survived. He could rig up the shelter and water supply, and I could provide food and clothing from the raw materials at hand. Sounds fun!

All this to say that I have a lot of catching up to do when it comes to technology, and specifically, social media.

I’m participating in Bonnie Hunter’s Good Fortune Mystery Quilt. Here’s the link:

https://bit.ly/2FXaVZH

In order to enter an awesome giveaway, I have to learn how to Linky, so here goes.

We used to teach this gentle little poem to our kindergartners:

“Come little leaves” said the wind one day,

“Come over the meadow with me and play;

Put on your dresses of red and gold,

For Summer is gone and the days grow cold”.

Soon as the leaves heard the wind’s loud call,

Down they came tumbling one and all.

Over the brown fields they danced and they flew,

Singing the soft little songs they knew.

It captured my imagination. I live where leaves don’t fall. Palms and pines don’t turn red and gold. But here, in the Smoky Mountains, I got to see what the poet George Cooper saw:

As I gazed at the Smoky Mountains from my cabin balcony, I thought butterflies were flitting between the trees. But it is too cold for butterflies. To my delight, I realized the leaves were dancing.

Leaves twirl and rise and swoop before they fall. They dance right down to their death. They go out in a blaze of red and gold glory. But they fall to the ground not to die, rather to decompose and return to the earth. Their essence is born again in the soil they nourish to bring forth new life.

Jesus said in Luke 19:40 – “I tell you, if they (my disciples) keep silent, the stones will cry out”. In all of creation, God reveals His plan: that salvation comes from death and resurrection. From the rocks, to the trees, to the falling leaves.

Tucked in the rolling green hills just outside of Nashville sits the Hermitage. My husband and I spent a morning there. When the docent was ushering our group through the front door of the mansion, I spied – could it be? – nine patches in progress in her little wooden basket. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t stop to inquire. Our group had a tight schedule and the next group was already queuing up behind me.

But look who I bumped into out the back door, taking her break on the veranda . . .

I got to visit with this lovely lady and make a new friend in the process. She teaches at the local university, and researches and sews all the costumes for the Hermitage staff. She saves the scraps and stitches them up into nine patches in her free time. So there she was, stitching away on beautiful reproduction fabrics from the 1812 era.

Her grandmother taught her to handstitch. If there weren’t twelve stitches to the inch, out they would come to be stitched over again. Grandmothers used to be like that!

A wise professor advised her to pursue both her education and her passion; and combine them if possible. My new friend Jill dove deep into the history of costume and how it reflected and shaped history.

My husband also followed his passion when he chose a career in history. My career was spent teaching in elementary school. So my knowledge is a mile wide and an inch deep. Which is to say that I relish knowing things, if not profoundly understanding them. I do understand that the world is a beautiful place full of wonderful friendly people.

. . . And quilts! 

And coverlets and needlepoint.

And tools.

They’re hanging in stairwells And pulled from drawers by friendly docents

On placards

And decking the hallways!

And out on the street.

This trip took us through a history buff’s paradise. We spent days at Civil War sites. We reviewed the War of 1812 at the Hermitage. My husband soaked it all in. I found respite in the bookstores.

Us mothers have feelings about war. We are the ones that carry new lives inside our bodies. Then once they are out, we are responsible to keep them alive. We keep them clean and dry and safe from harm and danger. It is our passion to protect them out of profound love and devotion.

So when those mothers of those soldiers let them march off to battle, I cannot for the life of me imagine what they felt. Where did they get the strength to let their babies go? And couldn’t the generals and president work harder to figure it out in peace?

So I dipped in and out. I walked the battlefields with my husband, then went to the car to warm up. I watched the video presentation in the interpretive visitor center, then I stole away to the bookstore to pull myself together.

Not only was I in Civil War territory, I was also on the Trail of Tears. I was also in a state that was a slave state, and all of these remembrances bring sadness.

I also dip in and out with my quilts. I’ve noticed that my projects have a rhythm. I make a bright, colorful, cheerful quilt, then a somber reproduction, then happy, then sad, and so on. It took me a few quilts to realize this pattern. When I’m sewing with reproduction fabrics, I get to feeling melancholy. I’ll write about this rhythm in a future post.

There is controversy regarding the role that quilts played in the Underground Railroad. When I skimmed through a few pages of this book, I came to understand why. The author wrote in a nonfiction manner, presenting her case as if it was based on actual fact. I would have taken it as straight up truth had I not learned otherwise. I would have loved the part quilters had in freeing the slaves. Quilters are intelligent and helpful and resourceful. Totally believable.

But there are equally noble truths about this dark era in our history. Those beautiful people caught in the crosshairs of war brought resolve and intelligence to their situations. Their lives were completely interrupted, and they had to keep clearheaded in order to figure out how to survive. How did they mentally process what was happening all around them? I marvel at their tenacity and perseverance. There was nothing civil about that war.

Heard from row of seats behind me on plane ride to Nashville:

Mother: “Dear”, (to husband), “He’s having trouble with the WiFi …”

“Here”, (to young son), “Take my phone and you can look at some pictures.”

Mind you, amazing views are happening right outside the window. Rivers are winding like ribbons between manmade squares and circles in the fertile soil, and rocky outcroppings are interrupting those fields. Then straight lines, roads, and rows of rooftops float by below us.

When our kids were his age, my husband and I took road trips across the continent, camping in national parks along the way. Our kids were required to look out the window. If they somehow smuggled contraband into the van (cd players, game boy) those were swiftly confiscated.

Not so today. Parents are shoving technology into the hands of their babies and turning them on so they can tune them out.

One thing I know: today’s parents won’t have to deal with this when traveling with their kids:

“Mom, Tell him to stop!”
“Stop what, dear?”
“Tell him to stop looking at me!”

At home, I usually spend time in my sewing room every day. And when we run errands, I keep a tote bag in the car with handwork to do on the road. On this trip I brought nothing to keep my hands busy, and I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I worried a little about it. You’ve seen the t-shirt that says, “I knit so I won’t kill people”. Well, If you’re like me, you get it. But it wasn’t a problem at all. My eyes were occupied with looking out the window:

I don’t see anything like this when I am home. I live near water, but it is salty. It doesn’t burble over rocks or grow moss and ferns. Here, in the Smoky Mountains, water is everywhere. It trickles from the limestone shale on both sides of the road. It evaporates into mist that blankets the valleys.

I wonder if the locals grow tired of this gentle beauty that surrounds them.

More views from my car window:

The locals kept telling us how we just missed the beautiful fall season. A windy storm had blown the leaves off the trees a couple of weeks ago.

No need to apologize friends. This is beautiful!

Down the road we go.

And this was the week that was . . .

Rather than resume my regular posts, I’m going to take a few days to share about our trip. The Bible Sampler Quilt blocks will return right after this.

When I began spending more time in my sewing room, I found podcasters to keep me company. My favorites all had something in common – they lived in the South. This was the only region in the USA that I had not explored until now. We spent this past week around Nashville. I got to peek into what the quilting scene is like in their neighborhood. We ventured out to North Carolina (Hey Bonnie Hunter and Leah Day, and Frances O’Roarke Dowell!). And what a thrill when our drive to the Smokies dipped us down into Georgia, home to Pam and Lynn at the Stitch TV; and last but not least, the Flylady.

Flylady? I actually started with her. I have Marla Cilley to thank for my quilting and blogging life. Her system of home organization got me all sorted, which then freed me up to do what I love best. She is an inspired encourager. If you need someone to help you dream big, I would say start with her.

I don’t know if it was luck, but all of the people I came into contact with this week were as warm and witty as those delightful and talented ladies. Is it the South Effect? The air is brisk and clean, the hills are green, and the pace is slow and steady. Here is the view outside my cabin window.

See what I mean? And take today. My family entered a museum visitor center just outside the Smoky Mountains. We didn’t have time to spend on the museum grounds, but when I casually pointed out the Grandmother’s Garden hexie quilt serving as a table cloth for a display, the employee offered to take me back through the exhibit to show me more quilts. The volunteers brought them from home to add to the display cases. We had a pleasant time admiring the hand-stitched feed sack and flour sack quilts.

Sorry there are no quilty photos to accompany this post. I think I need to keep a camera or cellphone with me at all times. Opportunities like these happen on a regular basis in the South.

Doubt is scary. It’s risky to step outside the comfortable zone of faith and examine scripture as an outsider would. Who knows what thoughts and feelings would unleash themselves and bubble up from deep within? And then what we we do with them once they reared their murky heads? The story of creation itself is enough for people with half a brain in their heads to walk away from Christianity shaking those heads in disbelief. How could anyone go along with a story of everything getting done in seven days? And by the way, one of those days was spent resting.

What do these non-believers offer by way of explanation? A Big Bang? That theory actually concurs with my idea of how it looked and sounded when God was speaking the world into being. I imagine it was a noisy process with lots of thunder and lightning fire. But the scene was anything but chaotic. God is a God of order. This is evident in the way in which He brought things into being. First He began with the elements needed to sustain life: light, darkness, air, water, soil. Next came plant life, herbs, trees, algae, and sea weed. Only then did He create animals “according to their kind”. This phrase is repeated over and over again as each type of creature is mentioned: “. . . each according to its kind.” God even knew then that we would be doubters. We’d eventually come up with a cockamamie idea of evolution. He made it clear in these phrases that species could not cross their phylum. Slime couldn’t become worms. Worms couldn’t become fish. Fish couldn’t become birds, mammals, and reptiles.

Thankfully, I believe God is perturbed not at all by our doubts. He is unchanging in His love for us. We are the ones who suffer. I may have a cure for this doubt. It comes in the form of a fish.

I kid you not.

Behold the pufferfish. Yes, the lowly pufferfish will confirm that only an omnipotent sheer genius God could design such a creature. Just search for “male pufferfish” on YouTube and a BBC video will show you what I’m talking about. The structure this little guy with a tiny brain builds on the ocean floor is absolutely stunning. You cannot convince me that he evolved from slime billions of years ago and figured this out all by himself.

https://youtu.be/VQr8xDk_UaY

If that’s not enough, consider the cuttlefish. Aren’t they awesome? And how about my personal favorite sea creature, the seahorse? On the fifth day God poured on His awesome creativity and the sea teemed with life.

I’ve reached the end of Genesis chapter one.

My husband and I are traveling to Nashville for the holidays, so no blogposts for a week. Happy Thanksgiving to my one follower!

Today is Sunday, so I won’t be posting a blog entry. But I’m dropping in to give a quick shoutout to International Day of the Bible, which happens to be today.

Social Media links:

http://www.internationaldayofthebible.com

#BibleCelebration

Peace out.