We all know people with magic fingers. They are able to craft beautiful objects from the most ordinary material. With a flick of the wrist they can transform a toilet paper roll and a piece of fluff into a shining angel.
There are people who demonstrate the virtues of a glue gun. A dab here, a dab there and presto–a lovely wreath or doll or silk flower arrangement materializes.
I am not one of these people. I have never used a glue gun without burning myself. I can't put down a paint brush without leaving paint on my hands, in my hair or on my clothes. My attempted handicrafts have a bedraggled, waifish look with wrinkled ribbon, misplaced lace, and dripping glue.
So why do I bother? God gave everyone different talents, right? Well, most often I steer away from craft making, but every year when the Christian school bazaar comes around, a voice (my husband's usually) tells me I should craft a contribution. I try to stick to rug hooking or embroidery–something with simple explicit instructions. Then I simply follow the pattern, concentrating on even stitches. My product looks quite good until I get to the finishing procedures. The directions tell me to bind ends, attach beads, mount, frame or simply finish off. But how?
Instinct fails me. Consequently my masterpieces are finished in creative and original, if not neat, ways. This was never a problem at the school bazaar in the community where we used to live. True friends would purchase my works, touch them up and kindly display them in their homes.
Moving to a new community changed that. The people here didn’t recognize my crafts as essentially beautiful or even as needy causes. Last year, in this community, my rug-hooked, puppy-wall-hanging was tossed onto a craft table where it buried itself beneath knitted slippers and cute baby sweaters.
I was tempted to buy the forlorn thing myself, but it was priced at $15 and who would touch it up for me?
One year later at the Christian School bazaar, I casually scanned the craft tables, hoping my puppy would not still be there. When I couldn't find him, I assumed someone must have adopted him.
But no, it was not so. Late in the afternoon as I toured the white elephant room where the tables were piled high with junk, I discovered my puppy. I humbly bought him for 50 cents and hung him in my back hall where I pass him every day. Every day he looks at me sadly and I smile sadly back.
I miss my old friends.
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