My grandma was a quilter and a crafter.  She spent hours crocheting blankets by lamplight on her living room couch (which she called a davenport).  There was always a graduation, wedding, or baby gift in progress.  In fact, the afghan she gave me when I graduated from high school over thirty years ago is often sprawled across my lap when I write.  It brings me such comfort to know she touched every piece of this yarn, as if part of her is still with me today.

Grandma was also a journaler. She left behind stacks of spiral-bound steno pads, and after her funeral I stayed up late into the night reading a few volumes. She wrote every evening, mostly matter-of-fact details about her daily activities, the weather, or the price of gasoline.

But one phrase leapt out at me time and again. She wrote some version of it nearly daily:

“Put a few stitches on the quilt.”

I noticed it so frequently that I began to snap a photo every time I came across those words on the page:

I’d always marveled at her ability to produce hundreds of handmade gifts for her loved ones, when I could barely finish the little starter cross-stitch kits she gave me. Suddenly I saw the secret to her success: just do a little bit every day. Want to finish a queen-sized quilt? It’s not so hard! Take it stitch by stitch!

My mind started swirling with all the ways this could be applied in life:

Want to write a book? Take it word by word.

Want to get in shape? Take it step by step.

Want to save money? Take it cent by cent.

Want to eat healthier? Take it meal by meal.

Want to play a musical instrument? Take it note by note.

The list could go on and on. I felt inspired.

“Stitch by stitch” captures the consistent, committed manner in which my grandmother lived and loved. She certainly gave me a little each day: time spent whenever possible, a card mailed when warranted, and always a prayer uttered. By the end of her life the sum of those actions wraps me in a blanket warmer than all her quilts combined.

“Stitch by stitch,” I thought as my head hit the pillow. Not a bad legacy.

Left to Right: my graduation afghan, Sam’s baby quilt, Maggie’s baby quilt, and our wedding quilt.
All made with love by my grandma!

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The next evening I boarded a plane back to Anchorage, and when we reached 31,000 feet I put on my headphones and scrolled through the onboard entertainment options. For some random reason I cued up an HBO series about Julia Child.  Why?  I have no idea; I’d never cooked a Julia Child recipe, read one of her cookbooks, or viewed her PBS television series. I didn’t know anything about her beyond impersonations I’d seen on Saturday Night Live, yet something inspired me to click play.

I. Was. Hooked.

Episodes one and two flew by, so I eagerly started episode three.

And then this scene played out on my tiny screen:

It’s late in the evening. Julia is seated at the kitchen table with her father, doubting herself as she clanks the keys of an old typewriter. She is drafting a script for her new television series.

“So this is the TV show?” her father asks, picking up a page.

“Yeah, hopefully.  Making a single episode is one thing, but an entire season?  I feel like I don’t know what the heck I’m doing,” Julia replies.

Her father skims the page and says, “Well, never mind with all that head-clutching nonsense.  You put one foot in front of the other.  How did your grandfather open his first bank in Illinois?”

 “Brick by brick,” she recalls. Her father smiles and nods.

“And how did I build the ranch house in Montecito?”

Julia has clearly heard this story before.  “Board by board,” she replies, understanding his meaning.

“Alright then.  There you go,”  her father declares. He leans toward her, taps the table and says, slowly and emphatically, “Cup by cup, Julia.”

I hit pause and looked around the plane, wanting to scream “DID ANYONE ELSE SEE WHAT JUST HAPPENED HERE?!”

I had chills.  Tears.  Goosebumps.

It genuinely felt like my grandma was sending me a message. “Stitch by stitch,” she was reminding me.  “You too can make beautiful things.”

I hear you, Grandma.  And I shall.