Hands to Work

“Hands to work. Hearts to God.” Mother Ann Lee (1736-1784)

I’m learning to crochet again—after 30 years since my last flurry of interest in the needle arts. I don’t remember what I made back then, but it wouldn’t have been anything of note—maybe a winter scarf, or something as mundane as potholders. I don’t know where this current urge is coming from. Possibly it’s the inspiration that washes over me each Sunday at St. Bede’s when the folks who have been working on prayer shawls come forward for their work to be blessed. Maybe it’s just my jack of many trades, master of none nature willing me to do something with my hands. Or perhaps it’s a need to quiet my mind. Handwork has that reputation.

A couple of weeks ago I made a trip to one of the many boutique yarn shops here in Santa Fe. My mission was to buy yarn to send to my friend Jane in Texas, who had offered to knit a winter cap for me. I have several caps already, but none of them handmade—certainly not handmade by a dear friend—and none of them red. Yes, I selected rich red organic wool. When I called Jane this afternoon, we talked about the organic wool label on the yarn I sent to her, but neither of us had an explanation for what constitutes “organic”. Were the sheep fed only organic grain and grass? As it turns out, that’s pretty much the guideline for certifying wool as organic. While in the yarn shop, my eyes were drawn to sample garments displayed around the place. The yarn of one sweater in particular drew my eye—merino wool from Ireland—and with two skeins of that wool and a hook designated suitable for me by the clerk, I left intent on making myself a scarf.

Last week I joined the group at church for their Tuesday gathering, and someone taught me how to start my scarf. “Create a chain the width of your scarf,” Donna advised, guiding me. Then she taught me how to do a single crochet, ending each row with a single chain, and then starting back the other direction. I was all thumbs at first, unable to get a proper grasp on the yarn with my left hand. “You just have to get comfortable,” Donna assured me, “then it becomes natural.” And so it did, finally, yesterday when I stayed inside most of the day, comforted by the warmth of my little condo casa, watching the snow fall softly from grey skies. My question several days ago to Steve—“What does it mean to be in the moment?”—“How does it feel?” suddenly got answered. Hook, catch, catch, hook, engaged me, as I sat intent, feeling the yarn stay taut better and better. “Hands to work. Hearts to God.”—popped into my head.

Although the scarf, now well underway, is far too primitive to be compared to the beautiful shawls I see presented most Sundays, I marvel at the hundreds of stitches that are resulting in something, well, pleasant, at least. Does it matter that my “hands to work” will serve only me, for now? No, I think not. My heart is searching in the right direction. My friend Jane has offered to teach me how to knit while I am in Texas over the next two months. God willing, I will return eager and sufficiently skilled to put my hands to work for someone who needs, oh so much, to be blessed. And then, of course, I will be blessed once again as well.

Hands to Work—Santa Fe, New Mexico (February 11, 2009)
R. Harold Hollis