A Hidden Strand of Connection
(Happily ’N’ever After – When Sandcastles Fall, Post Three)
“A hidden strand of connection running like a golden thread.”
Sewing is becoming a lost art. It’s creative, yes, but also a labor of patience. Stitched into each piece is more than fabric—it’s love, memory, and devotion.
My great-grandmother was gifted with a needle and thread. She quilted baskets, made pillows and hot pads, and stitched the most beautiful dresses. I can still remember twirling in the frilly Christmas dresses she crafted just for me, her little princess. Each seam held her pride; each garment carried her love.
I was blessed to know her well into my late teens. As she grew older, her hands lost the ability to weave material threads, but nothing could steal the golden threads of love she left behind. I was with her when she drew her last breath. Her final words—“I love y…”—trailed into silence before “you” was complete. In that instant, her crystal blue eyes met the eyes of her Savior.
She was a woman of deep faith. She lived it, quietly and fully, in her service to others. And though cancer weakened her body, the golden threads of her life were already woven into the generations who came after her.
She spent her last days in hospice at a monastery, cared for by nuns who knew me by name from my daily visits. I was holding her hand when she passed, stunned by what had just happened. A nun gently touched my shoulder and whispered, “Honey, all your grandmother wants is for you to be in church.”
That sentence echoed in me. My grandmother and I had never discussed church, yet her life had always reflected her faith.
I hadn’t grown up in church. Faith was implied more than spoken, lived more than taught. Our attendance was seasonal, sometimes Catholic, sometimes Episcopalian. My great-grandmother had attended a Baptist church.
Not long after her passing, I noticed a massive Baptist church just minutes from my apartment. It sat high on a hill, like a fortress, larger than life. That hilltop church is where my faith took root.
It wasn’t just faith that started there—it was also the beginning of a fairytale. My grandmother’s golden thread passed through the hand of a nun, who placed the first stitch. That stitch led to another, and then another, until it brought me to that “castle on a hill,” where I met my prince, married, and began what I thought would be my “happily ever after.”
But this was only one thread among many. My tapestry would be shaped by countless others—threads of family, celebration, compassion, and love—that continue to this day.
The Storybook Beginning