Life is Often Too Seriously Taken, so for that reason, I'm going to post a silly poem from time-to-time. These first several will each be taken from a small booklet entitled, Lighten Up! 100 Funny Little Poems, compiled and edited by Bruce Lansky.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Knit and Crochet for a Cause

In January, several friends and I met to look for specific ways we could help others through knitting and/or crocheting. We have met once-a-month to gather for fun, encouragement, and mutual admiration! ;-)

We chose two specific projects this year... The Preemie Project (supporting the preemies cared for at the University of Iowa Hospitals, Iowa City) and Project Linus. The Preemie Project can use such things as little blankets, hats, burial gowns; all babies from the tiniest size to newborn size. Project Linus provides blankets to young people ages 0 to 18 years. Neither has specifically recommended projects, but do have favorite patterns. These can be found on-line.

Our first shipment to The Preemie Project was made last Friday, February 27. Here are photos of what was taken.
One member of our original group
has crocheted and knitted little blankets
for this cause for several years.

The majority of our blankets were of her creation.

This blue blanket and hat were crocheted by
someone who hadn't crocheted for a number of years.
Didn't she make a wonderful set?
These three little beauties were crocheted by a fellow
that didn't want to join us on our monthly meeting dates.
Yes, this is a "fellow" that probably feels
he'd be out of place at our meetings,
but he doesn't know how much we appreciate him!

This is most of the collection.
Guess who made all the little "standing hats?"
Me! :-)

This is a photo of my first round of mini-hats.
I'd been visiting my parents after Christmas.
The fruit will give you an idea of the size of the hats.
I couldn't resist!
And I'm now working on a set of little blue hats.

Please be watching for another post in a month or so.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Grandma's Hands

I must admit that this is not my story.
I received this via an e-mail today.
I must share it.

Grandma, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench. She didn't move, just sat with her head down staring at her hands.

When I sat down beside her she didn't acknowledge my presence and the longer I sat I wondered if she was OK

Finally, not really wanting to disturb her but wanting to check on her at the same time, I asked her if she was OK. She raised her head and looked at me and smiled. 'Yes, I'm fine, thank you for asking,' she said in a clear voice strong.

'I didn't mean to disturb you, grandma, but you were just sitting here staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were OK,' I explained to her.

'Have you ever looked at your hands,' she asked. 'I mean really looked at your hands?'

I slowly opened my hands and stared down at them. I turned them over, palms up and then palms down. No, I guess I had never really looked at my hands as I tried to figure out the point she was making.

Grandma smiled and related this story:

'Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have, how they have served you well throughout your years. These hands, though wrinkled, shriveled, and weak, have been the tools I have used all my life to reach out and grab and embrace life.

'They braced and caught my fall when as a toddler I crashed upon the floor.

They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back. As a child, my mother taught me to fold them in prayer. They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots. They held my husband and wiped my tears when he went off to war.

'They have been dirty, scraped and raw , swollen and bent. They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold my newborn son. Decorated with my wedding band they showed the world that I was married and loved someone special.

They wrote my letters to him and trembled and shook when I buried my parents and spouse.

'They have held my children and grandchildren, consoled neighbors, and shook in fists of anger when I didn't understand.

They have covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and cleansed the rest of my body. They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and raw. And to this day when not much of anything else of me works real well, these hands hold me up, lay me down, and again continue to fold in prayer.

'These hands are the mark of where I've been and the ruggedness of life.

But more importantly, it will be these hands that God will reach out and take when he leads me home. And with my hands He will lift me to His side and there I will use these hands to touch the face of Christ.'

I will never look at my hands the same again. But I remember God reached out and took my grandma's hands and led her home.

When my hands are hurt or sore, or when I stroke the face of my children and husband, I think of grandma. I know she has been stroked and caressed and held by the hands of God

I, too, want to touch the face of God and feel His hands upon my face.