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It was a calm weekend, one where the kitchen was clean and the sewing machine was out on the craft table. I had shooed the two older boys out to the backyard, and I was listening through the open window as they argued and played, argued and played.
My goal was to create quiet books, the kind where you sew a bit of a plastic page protector to cardstock and essentially create a write-on, wipe-off board. The first seam went well, but just as I started the second, the thread slipped out of the needle leaving empty punctures where I had envisioned a zigzag stitch.
Since I was working with cardstock and not fabric, those holes were as noticeable as potholes on an otherwise smooth street. Where I had wanted perfection, I now had an ugly snag. And the only way to bind the slick page protector to the cardstock was to rethread the needle and make more punctures. I knew glue wouldn’t hold for long, especially with such a slippery surface.
I thought of books and newsletters, of staples and lasting binding. All holes. All punctures. I thought of paint slapped on polished wood, ready to chip almost as soon as it dried. And paint applied to a rough surface, forever in the cracks and crevices of a concrete overpass. It seems nothing binds for long when perfect and smooth, when only surface level is applied to only surface level.
I like surface level, where everything looks glossy and everyone gets along. I’d rather skip talking about my spiritual shortcomings and my irritating habit of leaving shoes in a pile by the door. But that’s a slippery way to bind a relationship that you want to keep, one that will hold tight when troubles and time tug.
God seems to have no problem poking holes in my struggles. My faltering patience gets sewn in with a panel of grace. When the needle strikes next, it’s my nagging self doubt that’s forever pulled tight to touch the fabric of his greatness.
The puncturing always comes first, though, before the healing. It’s uncomfortable at times, and unpleasant. No one likes the feeling of needle pricks or of sandpaper on the soul, but it’s necessary to scratch at the smooth surface, to dig a little deeper. There’s just no other way to bind hearts.
About Marketta Gregory
I never meant to be a columnist. I trained to be a newspaper reporter -- one who tried to her best to be objective. I covered religion for a few years and felt like it was the best job a curious woman like me could ever have. Every day I got to listen as people told me about the things that were most important to them, the things that were sacred. But the newspaper industry was changing and few papers could afford to have an army of speciality reporters. So, I moved to cover the suburbs where, as luck would have it, they have plenty of religion, too.
Eventually, children came into the picture. One by birth and another two months later by foster care/adoption. I struggled to chase breaking news and be home at a decent hour, so I made the move to what we journalists call the dark side: I took a job in public relations. (Don¹t worry. I work for a great non-profit, so it¹s not dark at all.)
When I gave my notice at the Rochester (N.Y.) Democrat and Chronicle, the executive editor asked me to consider writing a column on a freelance basis. She didn¹t want the newspaper to lose touch with its religious sources, and she still wanted consistent faith coverage. I was terrified. It took me about 10 months to get back to her with a solid plan and some sample columns.
And so it began, this journey of opening up my heart to strangers.
