The Sewing Circle

In 1952, twelve young women who shared an interest in handsewing got together for the first time. Each Friday they met to pass their work around -- where one might not be particularly skilled, another would apply her gift, and those who found grace in the tedious parts found loving work to which to put their hands.

The children of these twelve women, then, wore clothes throughout their childhood that had been touched and mended and perfected by our own mothers and their dearest friends.

We were raised by a village named The Sewing Circle.

As we grew up and eschewed delicate handsewn garments for Bobbie Brooks and blue jeans, the Circle began to meet only once a month. Precious little sewing got done anymore, but they cried together through the trials of wayward children, illnesses, the loss of spouses, and if no hems were mended, hearts were.

There were twelve of them: Jean U. Sara. Hallie. Jean H. Lois. Mary Haden. Melba. Noble. Pegge. Martha. Margaret.

Five of these remarkable women are gone now, their lives on Earth done. The sixth leaves tomorrow, moving to another city in which her daughter now lives and can best take care of her following a stroke she suffered just a few short months ago.

She was in church this morning with us and her children, as a final goodbye to the church in which she raised her family, the spiritual home that supported her during the hellish days when her husband battled alcoholism, the place from which she had always thought to be laid to rest next to her husband. I suppose that will still happen, and pray that it is far into the future.

After church was over, and we'd all hugged each other a dozen times, it occurred to me how much harder this was on Mama than the deaths of the 5. We understand death -- we know you can't get them back -- we know how to grieve the finality and honor the life. But with M.H. gone but not gone, it must feel like looking at someone you deeply love through glass. They are there, but you can't get to them. It's a death of a different sort.

Years ago, when the first death occurred it was decided that under no circumstances would they add members. There is an agreement that the last two will share a bottle of champagne together, no matter where they are or in what circumstance they find themselves. They will lift a glass in honor of The Sewing Circle, in memory for their friends who've gone on ahead, and in anticipation of a time when they are reunited with fingers nimble enough again to sew all that love and beauty into the garments of angels.

Whether my mother is one of those two or not, on that same day I'll pull my nicest crystal champagne flute down and offer my own toast to the sustaining power of friendship.