When I saw the two lengths of colorful fabric stacked and folded carefully on the laundry room table, I should have guessed my mother had special plans for it. The idea did flutter through my ten-year-old mind for a moment, but it didn’t linger long.
My friend Kristine and I had been playing in the backyard and had only just dashed inside for a moment to get something to drink. That’s when a flash of vibrant summer green and deep robin’s egg blue caught my eye. I unfolded one length of fabric and then the other—a few yards of each, both made of the same sturdy weave. I knew better than to cut it without asking first, but, I reasoned, there were lots of possibilities that didn’t involve scissors. We could use it for tents, capes, magic carpets, or the masts of a ship!
I grabbed the green cloth and tossed the blue to Kristine before running back outside into the sunshine.
We played all day long with those two lengths of cloth, using them for everything I’d imagined and more. We were careful with them, especially at first, making sure they didn’t get stained or stretched. But as the day wore on, we became less cautious.
An old dogwood tree grew beside the wooden fence that divided our backyard from the driveway, and Kristine and I climbed up beyond the fork of the tree where we could drop down on either side of the fence.
We pretended the tree was our home—the one place werewolves couldn’t get us—and we spread the blue and green cloths over branches to make a roof.
The cloth had already lost some of its fresh appearance by the time we’d grown tired of climbing, running, and jumping. And that’s when one of us had the idea to use it to make hammocks. It wasn’t easy tying the corners of the cloth onto the branches, but once we’d done it, we each climbed into our hammock and found they held up well.
I still remember the look on my mother’s face when she saw us dangling from the branches of the old dogwood tree in our makeshift hammocks. It wasn’t the first time she’d stepped out onto the porch, but the times before she hadn’t noticed the blue and green cloths. This time she did and her face showed the dawning comprehension—seeing the fabric she’d chosen and paid for stretched out and misused. Ruined.
A tug-of-war between various emotions and possible reactions played out in her expression, and I wondered which would win. I knew then fully what I’d vaguely known all along—I was unquestionably in the wrong.
At first my mother’s usually smiling mouth was set tight, but within seconds her well-practiced patience won out. She told me that she had intended to use that fabric for something in particular and that now she wouldn’t be able to. She said I should always ask before using something that wasn’t mine. Her voice was steady, her instruction measured, and the gentleness of it traveled deeper into my heart than anger ever could have.
So often, charity is sacrificial like that. Forgiveness quickly given. Kindness and gentleness offered even as feelings of irritation are welling up. It costs something to give it. And maybe especially because it’s undeserved, it has an impact on those who experience it.
The featured image, “Summer Lace,” is courtesy of Julie Jablonski and is used with her kind permission for Cultivating.
For Amy, it all starts with a story. As a child, fairytales and fantastic illustrations captivated her mind and sparked her imagination. All her art originates from the stories she writes. She sees her “story paintings” as windows that provide just enough to start the observer down the path but leave a little mystery to ignite their imagination.
Light shining out of the darkness is her favorite and most recurring theme. Amy, a columnist for Cultivating Magazine, believes that artwork that reflects goodness & truth can bring light into our lives and give us hope.
She enjoys a quiet life with her husband and two daughters, in a house full of treasured books and bright colors. A sleek, black cat and a nervous, brown rabbit keep her company each day while she paints.
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