On Line Advent Calendar
Visit each day during Advent (December 1 - 24) for a little treat courtesy of some of the creative people at Seattle First Baptist.
One Final Treat
~submitted by Jim Segaar
It has been a long Advent for me and others of the artistic ilk, who dabble in choral music and other seasonal activities and find ourselves overwhelmed just trying to keep up. December has been a month of rehearsals (more than I can count) and concerts to perform in (four) and attend (three), and I am tired. Weary, really. Being of good cheer is hard work.
But I draw strength from memories like those of Christmases I spent with my sister near Minneapolis. Her family is even more heavily into the Christmas profession than I am. As church musicians they work their tails off in December and are barely crawling by Christmas Eve. And yet, what do they choose to relax to on that special night? Music. Courtesy of Minnesota Public Radio they tune into one Christmas extravaganza after another. The St. Olaf Choir, for instance. And then, the best of all, Christmas from Kings College.
If there is a Holy Land of choral music, I would argue that it is at Kings College. So as this Advent winds its way to Christmas, and as we artistic types breathe a sigh of relief, on this last day of Advent we bring you Christmas at Kings College. It is not perfect. There's a commercial bit to get through right from the start. But our prayer is that you can find rest and inspiration in this music, done with a vocal purity found nowhere else in the world.
God rest ye merry, people all, and enjoy this seasonal treat.
~submitted by Jim Segaar
It has been a long Advent for me and others of the artistic ilk, who dabble in choral music and other seasonal activities and find ourselves overwhelmed just trying to keep up. December has been a month of rehearsals (more than I can count) and concerts to perform in (four) and attend (three), and I am tired. Weary, really. Being of good cheer is hard work.
But I draw strength from memories like those of Christmases I spent with my sister near Minneapolis. Her family is even more heavily into the Christmas profession than I am. As church musicians they work their tails off in December and are barely crawling by Christmas Eve. And yet, what do they choose to relax to on that special night? Music. Courtesy of Minnesota Public Radio they tune into one Christmas extravaganza after another. The St. Olaf Choir, for instance. And then, the best of all, Christmas from Kings College.
If there is a Holy Land of choral music, I would argue that it is at Kings College. So as this Advent winds its way to Christmas, and as we artistic types breathe a sigh of relief, on this last day of Advent we bring you Christmas at Kings College. It is not perfect. There's a commercial bit to get through right from the start. But our prayer is that you can find rest and inspiration in this music, done with a vocal purity found nowhere else in the world.
God rest ye merry, people all, and enjoy this seasonal treat.
Excerpt from Kneeling in Bethlehem
~Ann Weems
Submitted by Catherine Fransson
The whole world waits in December darkness
for a glimpse of the Light of God.
Even those who snarl "Humbug!"
and chase away the carolers
have been seen looking toward the skies.
The one who declared he never would forgive
has forgiven,
and those who left home
have returned,
and even wars are halted,
if briefly,
as the whole world looks starward.
In the December darkness
we peer from our windows
watching for an angel with rainbow wings
to announce the Hope of the World.
A Christmas Walk
~Photograph by Lupe Carlos III
Sometimes the only thing that will heal me is to walk. For minutes or miles. I need to feel the earth under my feet. To be quiet, to be reminded. At some point I started carrying a camera. I walk until I've returned to the center. There is always a marker. Then I make a picture. Beauty is everywhere, all the time. A gift under every tree.
~Photograph by Lupe Carlos III
Sometimes the only thing that will heal me is to walk. For minutes or miles. I need to feel the earth under my feet. To be quiet, to be reminded. At some point I started carrying a camera. I walk until I've returned to the center. There is always a marker. Then I make a picture. Beauty is everywhere, all the time. A gift under every tree.
Winter in Yellowstone
~Painting by Atit Marmer
"Ask and it will be given to you. Search and you will find... The door will be opened to the one who knocks".
Matthew 7:7
One Note
~Janet Hasselblad
It's the mystery of singing again. After Auschwitz, Pol Pot, Assad, Sandy Hook, Marysville. Maybe just a note. One note, hanging in the air. How do we, the collective and individual we, get back to singing after brutality, senselessness, blindsides and destruction?
One note at a time. The melancholy voice rising up from the backs of slaves in the cotton fields, on the railroad, in the factories. Music coming from the depths of the soul, joining with others, building up and away from grief.
How do we sing again? The sounds are fragmented and pitiful. A very unlovely song, but a song nonetheless. Songs of burden, death, the keening and moaning. And after those songs have gone on long enough, the wake over and done with, melodies become a bit more lovely, lighter. The wedding songs, babies are born into lullabies, campfires are built and songs fill the night air, stars dancing overhead in the blackness.
We can't help ourselves. We can't stay in the cold hospital stairway forever. The sun does rise again and the songs, they keep coming.
Voices, voices, voices, all around the world; so much to grieve, to rail against, to cry about and to celebrate.
The continuation of life around and around and around. The notes on the scale. The crescendo, the minuet, the salsa, the chanting and the choir.
Music to my ears.
Janet Hasselblad
10/30/14
Noël Suisse, No. XII
~Louis-Clause Daquin
Played by Michelle Horsley
The Laberynth
~Painting by Theresa Pruett
This piece, called The Laberynth, is a nonrepresentational abstract painting, which is intended to be the pure expression of the artiest's inner experience. I have found that the creative process of laying color and texture on the canvas to express myself is dynamic and static at the same time. It is dynamic in that the process anticipates creation and is life-giving. The colors are warm and cool depending upon what and how they are mixed. And the texture creates depth and can be layered and folded with color to create shape and line, and ultimately the "composition." The creative process is also static because it is foretold, it "is" before it comes to pass, as I AM.
~Painting by Theresa Pruett
This piece, called The Laberynth, is a nonrepresentational abstract painting, which is intended to be the pure expression of the artiest's inner experience. I have found that the creative process of laying color and texture on the canvas to express myself is dynamic and static at the same time. It is dynamic in that the process anticipates creation and is life-giving. The colors are warm and cool depending upon what and how they are mixed. And the texture creates depth and can be layered and folded with color to create shape and line, and ultimately the "composition." The creative process is also static because it is foretold, it "is" before it comes to pass, as I AM.
Too Close to Home
~Jim Segaar
When someone says something like “that hit a little too close to home,” it usually has negative connotations. Perhaps a “friendly joke” sounds just a bit too serious, or some comment or event has more impact than we find comfortable. But I’ve noticed another meaning for the phrase. We often seem to overlook beauty and wonder if they are too close to us, when we think we know them too well.
I used to see this a lot at work. A manager would pass over well-qualified internal candidates for a promotion because she knew all their foibles. Instead she would hire an “expert from the outside,” usually a complete stranger, often with less-than-satisfactory results. In cases like this everyone ended up unhappy – the now-disgruntled employees who were passed over, the new hire who struggled to do the job and was roundly resented by his coworkers, and the manager whose group performed worse instead of better.
I’ve been guilty of a similar lack of appreciation when it comes to natural beauty that happens to be located right in my own neighborhood. For example, I rode my bike all the way across the United States through national parks, cornfields, state capitols, and everything in between before I recognized that Lake Washington Boulevard is one of the most beautiful bike rides anywhere.
Washington Park Arboretum is another object lesson in recognizing beauty close at hand. The Arboretum is less than a mile away, much too close to be considered a “destination” worth visiting. It feels more like our neighborhood park. It would be easy to overlook. But what a park! Over the years we’ve enjoyed every season amid the trees there – spring blossoms, summer canoeing, fall color, and even winter snows.
I’ve traveled far to see winter scenery. Recent chilly trips include Yellowstone National Park, Banff and Whistler. But when a snowstorm blanketed the Arboretum in January, 2012, our neighborhood park took on world-class winter beauty. Just a short walk from our home we found a wonderland of flocked trees and peacefully deserted pathways.
Some times the people and places closest to us contain the biggest surprises, but it is so easy to overlook what is at our fingertips. Instead we expend our energy and imagination longing for the time or money or other resources to obtain someone or something that is out of reach. I am so glad that I spent a chilly morning three years ago walking to a local wonderland rather than holing up by the fireplace with my computer to plan another vacation.
This Advent, as we wait in anticipation, let’s remember to be aware of what is around us: the natural wonders and especially the fantastic people in our lives. It could be our family and friends. It could be a stranger in the same church pew. But chances are some spectacular gifts are right at hand.
~Jim Segaar
When someone says something like “that hit a little too close to home,” it usually has negative connotations. Perhaps a “friendly joke” sounds just a bit too serious, or some comment or event has more impact than we find comfortable. But I’ve noticed another meaning for the phrase. We often seem to overlook beauty and wonder if they are too close to us, when we think we know them too well.
I used to see this a lot at work. A manager would pass over well-qualified internal candidates for a promotion because she knew all their foibles. Instead she would hire an “expert from the outside,” usually a complete stranger, often with less-than-satisfactory results. In cases like this everyone ended up unhappy – the now-disgruntled employees who were passed over, the new hire who struggled to do the job and was roundly resented by his coworkers, and the manager whose group performed worse instead of better.
I’ve been guilty of a similar lack of appreciation when it comes to natural beauty that happens to be located right in my own neighborhood. For example, I rode my bike all the way across the United States through national parks, cornfields, state capitols, and everything in between before I recognized that Lake Washington Boulevard is one of the most beautiful bike rides anywhere.
Washington Park Arboretum is another object lesson in recognizing beauty close at hand. The Arboretum is less than a mile away, much too close to be considered a “destination” worth visiting. It feels more like our neighborhood park. It would be easy to overlook. But what a park! Over the years we’ve enjoyed every season amid the trees there – spring blossoms, summer canoeing, fall color, and even winter snows.
I’ve traveled far to see winter scenery. Recent chilly trips include Yellowstone National Park, Banff and Whistler. But when a snowstorm blanketed the Arboretum in January, 2012, our neighborhood park took on world-class winter beauty. Just a short walk from our home we found a wonderland of flocked trees and peacefully deserted pathways.
Some times the people and places closest to us contain the biggest surprises, but it is so easy to overlook what is at our fingertips. Instead we expend our energy and imagination longing for the time or money or other resources to obtain someone or something that is out of reach. I am so glad that I spent a chilly morning three years ago walking to a local wonderland rather than holing up by the fireplace with my computer to plan another vacation.
This Advent, as we wait in anticipation, let’s remember to be aware of what is around us: the natural wonders and especially the fantastic people in our lives. It could be our family and friends. It could be a stranger in the same church pew. But chances are some spectacular gifts are right at hand.
Washington Park Arboretum in Winter
Snowshoe Trail
~Photography by Joan Bowers
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Go Tell It On the Mountain
~Congregation and Phillip Woods, pianist and soloist
Submitted by Vicky Thomas, from the Christmas concert of 2012
As much as there is mystery and wonder around the Christmas manger, there is also exuberant outbursts of unbridled joy. This carol has always gotten me “psyched” for Christmas and I especially enjoyed hearing it burst for the from our congregation when led by the marvelous Phillip Woods.
~Congregation and Phillip Woods, pianist and soloist
Submitted by Vicky Thomas, from the Christmas concert of 2012
As much as there is mystery and wonder around the Christmas manger, there is also exuberant outbursts of unbridled joy. This carol has always gotten me “psyched” for Christmas and I especially enjoyed hearing it burst for the from our congregation when led by the marvelous Phillip Woods.
A Painting by Atit Marmer
snow comforts me like a warm blanket; I am aflame with winter as I rest in this sacred space of advent.
Christmas Gray Jay
~Photo and Poem by Lupe Carlos III
I am
in the bitter chill
in the gloom of winter
without prodding or ambition
I await a new season
when love comforts
and belonging heals
until then
I'll cherish God's greatest gift
the gift of being
In Dulci Jubilo (In Quiet Joy)
~Played by Jim Ginn
In sweet rejoicing,
now sing and be glad.
Our hearts' joy
lies in the manger;
And it shines like the sun
in the mother's lap.
You are the alpha and omega.
This simple piece is a little gem of the organ repertoire. It was composed by one of the great French organists, Marcel Dupre, who was revered for his grand, complex and difficult compositions. But Dupre reached into a deeper place in the heart when he composed this piece. When played correctly the music conveys a gentle rocking effect. I sometimes imagine that I can hear Mary humming the melody as a lullaby to her newborn son. In this frenetic season, In Quiet Joy warmly enfolds and comforts us, and reminds us of what’s truly important.
Home
~By Janet Hasselblad
Perhaps scattered by the winds
the family comes together again.
The holidays reunite them,
or a birthday, anniversary
maybe something not so pleasant,
A death, an accident, a grievous event.
It's what families do. They come together.
The winds tell them,
it's time.
Pack your overnight bags
and head back to the homestead.
Wherever and whatever it may be.
Whatever home means to you,
this is the time.
Whether loving friends or good old mom and dad and the gang,
These reunions
These gatherings meet some kind of need we have,
Finding our place in the context of things
of the world
life.
The songs of our hearts need the chorus
the refrain, the blending of voices, not our own,
but so known.
I can't explain it.
You just know it when you hear it.
Home, a place, a moment, a feeling.
It's primitive. It's a longing. For belonging.
The blessings of a gathering,
a melting into familiar,
a place to be seen, known,
rejoiced over.
Let the winds take you where they may,
let them remind you: it's going to be okay,
let them lead you to the place you know
home.
11/17/14
Ornaments
~Artwork by Michaele Miller
"Two are biological illustrations that remind me of ornaments. The Leafy Sea Dragon is
just crazy and over the top and ornamental, and the bat is hanging upside down like an ornament!
(plus, I like the darkness of a bat). The third is an actual ornament I made out of a record!"
~Artwork by Michaele Miller
"Two are biological illustrations that remind me of ornaments. The Leafy Sea Dragon is
just crazy and over the top and ornamental, and the bat is hanging upside down like an ornament!
(plus, I like the darkness of a bat). The third is an actual ornament I made out of a record!"
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Advent Sparrow
~Photo and Haiku by Karen Carlos
Stop, watch and rejoice
Birds sing a beautiful song
Stop, restore and prepare
~Photo and Haiku by Karen Carlos
Stop, watch and rejoice
Birds sing a beautiful song
Stop, restore and prepare
A Tender Rose Has Blossomed (Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming)
~16th Century Melody, arr. John M. Rasley
Michelle Horsley, Organist
I have always thought of this melody (Es ist ein Ros entsprungen) as a timeless Advent selection. This ancient tune has been sung by Catholics and Protestants for hundreds of years and speaks of the important Advent message that a rose is blooming, even in the cold and often bitter winter. This rose slowly blossoming is a symbol of Christ's anticipated arrival, a sign of God's love that will give hope to the weary and darkened world.
~16th Century Melody, arr. John M. Rasley
Michelle Horsley, Organist
I have always thought of this melody (Es ist ein Ros entsprungen) as a timeless Advent selection. This ancient tune has been sung by Catholics and Protestants for hundreds of years and speaks of the important Advent message that a rose is blooming, even in the cold and often bitter winter. This rose slowly blossoming is a symbol of Christ's anticipated arrival, a sign of God's love that will give hope to the weary and darkened world.
The Beauty of Winter
By Cathy Fransson
I admire trees that have grown unrestricted into their full height and width, complementary branches reaching out on all sides. I usually have to drive into the country to find them, unless an admiring neighborhood has protected at least one of the giants that were planted in the early years of the city to replace the cedars and fir that once peopled the hills.
Now that the cold winds of early December have dealt with the remaining leaves, bronzed with age, the branches of the sculptured deciduous trees are revealed in their natural glory, arms gracefully reaching out from a strong trunk, balancing its dance of height without the dress of spring.
What bones! What beauty beneath the showy costume of leaves. The sculpted arms turn, rise and arc in graceful gestures invisible in the summer. They have an underlying vigor, a balanced symmetry you can only imagine mirrored in their root systems below. They are endurance itself, patience, a symbol of life’s endless cycle merely standing in place.
Thomas Merton wrote, A tree praises God by being a tree. As we praise God by being ourselves? I wish we could accept our nature to be ourselves, and not some tarted-up version that speaks more of vanity than honesty.
As the splendor of summer fullness drops to the ground to warm the smaller plants and burrowing roots, real beauty is revealed, the spirit that makes the tree possible. Sometimes, near its center is a clutch of grass, fluff, feathers and mud plaited into a bird nest: a nursery that the tree gently holds, as if it were its heart.
By Cathy Fransson
I admire trees that have grown unrestricted into their full height and width, complementary branches reaching out on all sides. I usually have to drive into the country to find them, unless an admiring neighborhood has protected at least one of the giants that were planted in the early years of the city to replace the cedars and fir that once peopled the hills.
Now that the cold winds of early December have dealt with the remaining leaves, bronzed with age, the branches of the sculptured deciduous trees are revealed in their natural glory, arms gracefully reaching out from a strong trunk, balancing its dance of height without the dress of spring.
What bones! What beauty beneath the showy costume of leaves. The sculpted arms turn, rise and arc in graceful gestures invisible in the summer. They have an underlying vigor, a balanced symmetry you can only imagine mirrored in their root systems below. They are endurance itself, patience, a symbol of life’s endless cycle merely standing in place.
Thomas Merton wrote, A tree praises God by being a tree. As we praise God by being ourselves? I wish we could accept our nature to be ourselves, and not some tarted-up version that speaks more of vanity than honesty.
As the splendor of summer fullness drops to the ground to warm the smaller plants and burrowing roots, real beauty is revealed, the spirit that makes the tree possible. Sometimes, near its center is a clutch of grass, fluff, feathers and mud plaited into a bird nest: a nursery that the tree gently holds, as if it were its heart.
Visions of Sugar Plums
Painting by Theresa Pruett
Worn from another sleepless night, my daughter Emily lays her head softly on my pillow. She closes her eyes in an effort to rest, to bring respite to her heart fractured from her first love. I watch quietly. The lines around her eyes soften and the muscles pursing her lips relax as she finally sleeps. I imagine a young Emily falling asleep the night before Christmas, anxious for a different reason. I wonder what a “Sugar Plum” looks like. Turning on the bedside lamp, I begin to draw, preserving the quiet moment on paper and meditating on the restorative power of slumber and prayer.
Painting by Theresa Pruett
Worn from another sleepless night, my daughter Emily lays her head softly on my pillow. She closes her eyes in an effort to rest, to bring respite to her heart fractured from her first love. I watch quietly. The lines around her eyes soften and the muscles pursing her lips relax as she finally sleeps. I imagine a young Emily falling asleep the night before Christmas, anxious for a different reason. I wonder what a “Sugar Plum” looks like. Turning on the bedside lamp, I begin to draw, preserving the quiet moment on paper and meditating on the restorative power of slumber and prayer.
Something’s Not Quite Right
Essay and Photos by Jim Segaar
I have many memories of the holiday season. Some wonderful. Some sad beyond words. A few that are simply boring. But one thing I don’t recall is a single holiday happening that is worthy of becoming a Hallmark Card. Something is always a little off. I’d rate even the best memories a 9.5, not a perfect 10.
My favorite childhood holiday memory involves a Christmas tree. One year, when I was 6 or 7, my three brothers and I drove into the mountains near our home in Montana to get the family tree. I don’t remember if we looked very long or hard before we found a tree that we deemed acceptable and cut it down. Well we didn’t exactly cut the whole tree down. It was too big. We just took the top 6 feet. When we got home our sisters took over setting up and decorating the tree. They didn’t like its shape, and decided it needed a little pruning. First one snip, then another, then some snickers. Their laughter got louder with every cut. By the time they were done the girls were in hysterics and the tree had been entirely dismembered. That year we celebrated around a table full of branches, and I kept the top 12 inches of the tree next to my bed in a Mason jar of water.
As an adult I learned the wonders of travel over the holidays. For a variety of reasons, some work-related and others more familial in nature, we have a tradition of going away for Christmas. I’ve spent Christmas Eve in several beautiful cathedrals, but I’ve also seen some scenes that are nearly indescribable. One of my favorites was when we landed in Santiago, Chile on Christmas Day. It being the middle of summer in the Southern Hemisphere, we went for a hike in the park. We saw a bagpiper playing “Amazing Grace” in a Japanese garden. We watched a Jazzersize class dancing their way to fitness in a sunny meadow. We heard a folksy version of “Room Pah Poom Poom” in a little chapel under an enormous statue of the Virgin and a key-defying performance by some sort of glee club for octogenarian men in a rather dismal cathedral. The next day we moved on to the town of Puerto Varas, where the entire square was given over to inflatable snowmen, Santa dolls and decorated trees. It all just looked wonderfully wrong under the blazing sun.
That’s the way it is for me during the holidays. Lots of things happen. Some appear to be more successful than others, but none of them are perfect. And that’s just fine in my opinion. Moments only seem Hallmark Perfect from a distance. When we are in the middle of it all things are invariably a little messy. Not quite right. Real.
Essay and Photos by Jim Segaar
I have many memories of the holiday season. Some wonderful. Some sad beyond words. A few that are simply boring. But one thing I don’t recall is a single holiday happening that is worthy of becoming a Hallmark Card. Something is always a little off. I’d rate even the best memories a 9.5, not a perfect 10.
My favorite childhood holiday memory involves a Christmas tree. One year, when I was 6 or 7, my three brothers and I drove into the mountains near our home in Montana to get the family tree. I don’t remember if we looked very long or hard before we found a tree that we deemed acceptable and cut it down. Well we didn’t exactly cut the whole tree down. It was too big. We just took the top 6 feet. When we got home our sisters took over setting up and decorating the tree. They didn’t like its shape, and decided it needed a little pruning. First one snip, then another, then some snickers. Their laughter got louder with every cut. By the time they were done the girls were in hysterics and the tree had been entirely dismembered. That year we celebrated around a table full of branches, and I kept the top 12 inches of the tree next to my bed in a Mason jar of water.
As an adult I learned the wonders of travel over the holidays. For a variety of reasons, some work-related and others more familial in nature, we have a tradition of going away for Christmas. I’ve spent Christmas Eve in several beautiful cathedrals, but I’ve also seen some scenes that are nearly indescribable. One of my favorites was when we landed in Santiago, Chile on Christmas Day. It being the middle of summer in the Southern Hemisphere, we went for a hike in the park. We saw a bagpiper playing “Amazing Grace” in a Japanese garden. We watched a Jazzersize class dancing their way to fitness in a sunny meadow. We heard a folksy version of “Room Pah Poom Poom” in a little chapel under an enormous statue of the Virgin and a key-defying performance by some sort of glee club for octogenarian men in a rather dismal cathedral. The next day we moved on to the town of Puerto Varas, where the entire square was given over to inflatable snowmen, Santa dolls and decorated trees. It all just looked wonderfully wrong under the blazing sun.
That’s the way it is for me during the holidays. Lots of things happen. Some appear to be more successful than others, but none of them are perfect. And that’s just fine in my opinion. Moments only seem Hallmark Perfect from a distance. When we are in the middle of it all things are invariably a little messy. Not quite right. Real.
South American Christmas, complete with summer skies, decorated evergreens, and lots of life-sized Santas.
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I saw my husband kissing Santa Claus ,,, and the Virgin Mary saw it too!
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Ani Ma’amin - Traditional Jewish song
Submitted by Vicky Thomas, from the Christmas concert of 2007
Is it strange that one of my most meaningful Advent musical memories is a Jewish song? As you will hear in Donna Ward’s narration, this piece about waiting for the Messiah and the power of that belief even in the face of death. The violin solos from around the sanctuary lend a special poignancy to this selection.
Ani ma'amin, Be'emunoh sheleymoh, B’vias hamoshiakh.
V’af al piy sheyismahmeyah, im kol zeh ani ma'amin.
Im kol zeh akahkehlo b’khol yom sheyovo.
I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the Messiah,
And although he may tarry, I will wait daily for his coming.
Submitted by Vicky Thomas, from the Christmas concert of 2007
Is it strange that one of my most meaningful Advent musical memories is a Jewish song? As you will hear in Donna Ward’s narration, this piece about waiting for the Messiah and the power of that belief even in the face of death. The violin solos from around the sanctuary lend a special poignancy to this selection.
Ani ma'amin, Be'emunoh sheleymoh, B’vias hamoshiakh.
V’af al piy sheyismahmeyah, im kol zeh ani ma'amin.
Im kol zeh akahkehlo b’khol yom sheyovo.
I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the Messiah,
And although he may tarry, I will wait daily for his coming.
Hurricane Ridge
Photograph by Joan Bowers
Photograph by Joan Bowers
A Painting by Atit Marmer
Looking out to the majestic trees underlined by sunbeams of snow from the porch of Tollefson's cabin; snow on snow, warm friendship and sharing on a brisk, welcoming winter day: cherished memories
Looking out to the majestic trees underlined by sunbeams of snow from the porch of Tollefson's cabin; snow on snow, warm friendship and sharing on a brisk, welcoming winter day: cherished memories
A Stitch in Time
Poetry and Quilts by Janet Hasselblad
Poetry and Quilts by Janet Hasselblad
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One stitch at a time.
The machine hums its' song. Purring as I feed the cloth through Small pieces joining one another one after the other. Becoming a whole. Scraps of color, stitch by stitch. With each stitch there is a prayer, a wish, a hope and gratitude. For the person the quilt is being created for. Stitch stitch stitch Thank you for being in my life. Thank you for sharing who you are with who I am. Thank you for sharing your song in harmony with my own. And with the world. I wish for you comfort, perhaps with this quilt on your lap. I wish for you serenity and joy. I wish for you light at the end of every tunnel You may go through. The blessings are mighty within these stitches. They are only for you. Stitch by stitch. You are in my heart. ~Janet Hasselblad 11/15/14 
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