Instrument of Peace
I still own the sewing machine that belonged to my grandmother and great-grandmother. The small, black Singer assisted me in making childhood clothes, my wedding dress, and curtains that hang in my house to this day. In the past, when people saw my machine, they often asked, “Is it a toy?” No, it’s a sentimental gift I inherited from my great-grandmother—an old, reliable machine with a lot of miles on its motor that still works—a little like me.
But for the past two decades, I’ve ignored the Singer, leaving it in a closet, waiting for rare moments when something needed a repair. I’ve replaced my active sewing hobby from younger years with writing. Sewing needed to go bye-bye if I was going to complete a novel.
Recently, a friend suggested making baby blankets from my family’s Scottish tartan pattern for my growing brood of grandchildren. I agreed, purchased the fabric and pulled out the dusty Singer. Unfortunately, when I threaded up the machine, the stitches formed unevenly on the fabric, some too loose, some too tight—a tension problem. As a child, I used to descend into tears when tension problems occurred with my thread, until my mother heard my cries for help and appeared, usually from the kitchen. Quietly and patiently, she adjusted the machine, talking to me in a soft voice. I calmed.
When I brought the machine into a local repair shop, that familiar look of amusement appeared on the repairman’s face when I lifted the machine onto the counter. He suggested I exchange for a new, more expensive model.
Not a chance.
While I’ve created many items on this machine, mostly the Singer is a tangible reminder of some of the best moments I shared with my mother, who struggled in many ways. When I described her helping me with quiet patience, I failed to mention the rarity of that kind of response from her. Consistently parenting four children seemed to rob her of unspoken dreams for her life, dreams of fun, freedom, and peace. Alcohol quenched her longings each evening, and maintaining a healthy relationship with her during my adult years became challenging. Despite being able to find words for much of my broken family’s turmoil, I’ve struggled to find the words to write compassionately about her.
Until now.
When I pulled out my outdated sewing machine to work on those baby blankets, my attitude toward my mother softened, allowing me to see her complexity and ability to be fully present at times to her children, despite all the other moments when she failed. She was a fearful person, and many of the emotional problems she displayed resulted from those fears.
While the machine’s sturdy, compact, and simple 1950s design seems obsolete to some people, to me it holds some of the warmest memories of my mother. Engaging in domestic tasks and creating a sanctuary for herself and her children brought out the best in my mother. Where the world outside our door seemed to intimidate her with its wealthier, more educated, and confident inhabitants, domestic life gave her pleasure. She loved cooking, sewing, and keeping a nice home, and she taught me those skills.
Looking back, I believe she appreciated how I stepped into her domain with enthusiasm. Whenever we sewed or cooked together, a transformation took place, and she became the world’s most patient mom.
If only we could have threaded together words of apology and forgiveness with that old Singer machine, creating a new and improved relationship where healing abounded. Her relationships and life would’ve been different. Certainly, her relationship with me would’ve been different. Often, I wonder what it would have looked like.
Forgiving and loving difficult, hard-to-love people can be one of life’s great confusions and challenges, even as it’s one of the great tasks we are given as believers. My mother passed away thirteen years ago, and we never repaired the breach in our relationship because it would have required both of us to desire mutual respect, trust, and love.
“If possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all men” (Rom. 12:18 NIV).
Today, I trust in the power of God to transform even the most shattered relationships. I’ve seen it happen. Sadly, and to my great grief and regret, my mother had no desire to pursue that kind of relationship with me.
I’ve heard it said authors sometimes have one story they’re trying to work out through their fiction. As a novelist, I believe I’m trying to make sense of some of the pain involved in the shattering of this most important relationship. Maybe the story I’m trying to perfect is how characters can be complicated—difficult to love, cruel at times, in desperate need of empathy and compassion, but still lovable. I hope I one day succeed in conveying that truth through my words.
Photograph © Linda MacKillop, used with permission
