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Crochet
12″ x 36″
My Grandmother Is A Baptism Dress
by Kay Speaks
My grandmother is a baptism dress
passed down through the generations
crocheted in soft white yarn
showing patches here and there
yellowing with age
My grandfather is a photograph
of a battered yellow rowboat
fishing rods and catfish
Saturday horseshoe games
and smuggled moonshine
Grandfather proposed to grandmother
during a frigid winter night
snuggled in that old yellow rowboat
my mother the last to wear
the frail and tattered heirloom
Baptism Gown
by Jordan Bernal
Crochet needles clack
White ribbons tied into bows
Ready for baptism
Stitches
by Diane Lovitt
The stitches of love
Couple together the rows
That fingers poke trough.
Second Chance
by Annette Langer
Tracy faced the daunting task of clearing out the family home, getting ready to put it up for sale. It seemed as if it had been in the family forever, passing down from one generation to the next, but the time had come to let it go. Her brothers and sisters agreed with her. Except for Tracy, the others were scattered all over the nation. They all had their own homes and certainly didn’t want to be burdened with the upkeep of a drafty old Victorian house. Now that both of their parents were gone, it would be best to sell it, divide the proceeds and let the outdated features of the old Victorian become someone else’s challenge.
Tracy and her husband set about disposing of the furniture and art pieces, some to be sold, some for charity. They’d spent weeks emptying out the house. All that was left to tackle was to remove several cartons from the attic, stored there over time by past generations. A few more weekends of carting out boxes of “stuff”—items once valued—and they’d finally be finished.
The following day she climbed the staircase to the attic to begin the demanding chore. Lighter things first, she thought. Heavy boxes would come down later when her husband could help. She’d made countless trips up and down the stairs and began to tire when a flat box on top of some cartons caught her eye. That’s it for today, she decided, grabbed it and headed down.
She placed the box on the sideboard in the dining room and opened it. Inside it was another box wrapped in antique gift paper with a note that simply read, “For Demetria.” Tracy unfolded the fragile paper covering and lifted off the lid, finding a delicately crocheted christening gown underneath. She’d never before heard of a Demetria in the family and thought this may have been a gift intended for a friend long ago. But why was it never given? Who was Demetria and who was the giver? She’d called each of her siblings the next day, the only other living relatives, but they’d never heard the name either. Realizing she’d probably reached a dead end, she gave up trying to figure it out and contacted a realtor instead, moving forward with the sale.
After the house was sold, life got back to normal. Tracy and her husband focused on each other again and were able to examine the remaining articles from the attic at their leisure. Among them were an album of black and white photos and a well-worn bible listing the births and deaths of the family’s ancestors. No Demetria, though. They’d found an old leather-bound journal with Tracy’s great, great-grandmother’s name neatly penned on the inside cover. Each page read like a young girl’s diary, probably what passed for one at the time. She’d written about her life, her hopes and her dreams. But one entry clearly startled her—the young woman had found herself pregnant and unmarried. The entries stopped with the pregnancy, never mentioned again, but picked up a few years later with her marriage and the subsequent births of her children. Shortly after that, the entries ended. She was probably too busy raising her family to continue writing.
Tracy worried over how her great, great-grandmother, a product of the times, had handled her dilemma. Was the pregnancy terminated or did she give up the baby? Was this Demetria? She couldn’t stop thinking about it. Even weeks later, she still felt emotionally raw, physically exhausted and generally sick. I have to get over this, she scolded herself. It’s not healthy. It can’t still be shock causing me to feel this bad. She decided to make an appointment to see her doctor.
“It’s nothing to worry about at all,” the doctor’s kind smile assured her after the extensive examination. ”In fact, it’s very good news. You’re pregnant!”
Tracy took in a sudden, short breath and reverently touched her belly. Giddy with excitement, she thanked him and rushed out to call her husband. “We’re pregnant!” her voice bubbled into the phone. “We’re finally going to have a baby!”
The months flew by and on the day of her ultrasound, Tracy learned their baby was a girl. She smiled at the news and hugged herself. Demetria, you’re going to get a second chance!
Baptism
by Linda Todd
I wake in the middle of the night unable to sleep on the anniversary of your baptism.
Every year I repeat the same routine. Open the hope chest, unwrap the linen cloth, press the crocheted dress to my face. Your scent still permeates the threads so expertly entwined in the shell pattern by my mother’s gnarled fingers and hook.
Years have passed since the late night call on the day of your baptism, but the pain of losing my mother never lessens. You’ve grown from infant to mature woman, on the verge of bearing your own child.
My mother told the story of her mother’s death on the night of my baptism. I’ve told you the story of my mother’s death on the night of your baptism.
I lay the white dress on the linen cloth, smooth the folds, wrap it tight. As I close the lid on the hope chest, I pray I’ll be with you when you tell your daughter about the day of her baptism.
Baptism
by Julaina Kleist-Corwin
One of my best friends invited me to her baby’s baptism several years ago. The only other guest was the psychic who predicted the child would grow up to be a humanitarian and make a difference in the world. In her handmade baptismal dress, angelic and sweet, we believed the prophecy. For several years, I wondered what went wrong.
Her mother, extremely overprotective, worried about the precious dear and set too many limits for her safety. From preschool age onward, the child rebelled. The father didn’t care. He preferred freedom, distance, and alcohol. To his daughter, he was a stranger. His infrequent visits weren’t enough to create a bond between the two.
At school age, the girl refused food except bread and would drink no water or juice. She lost weight and looked years younger than her age. Dehydration sent her to the hospital several times. In fifth grade, she let go of the eating disorder or manipulation, whichever it was, and immersed herself in knowledge. The teacher told her mother that the girl’s grades were beyond expectations. Academically, she could skip a grade, but being socially inept, made the jump inadvisable.
As a grumpy preteen, she had few friends, occasionally joined misfits but not for long. She preferred animals and plants for companions. She used a movie camera to make videos with stuffed animals, flowers, trees, and sky. I enjoyed watching how she moved the animals in different positions, spoke for them in the recordings, and ended up with believable vignettes. I praised her for her productions, but I received only a sullen look as if I weren’t stating anything new.
Creative and smart, yet a nonconforming teenager, she stuffed the toilet with paper towels to anger the mother who had to call the plumber on their limited budget. My frightened friend turned to the police when the teen disappeared for hours without leaving a note. No one knew where she went. When she returned, she had angry outbursts accusing the police and her mother for asking too many questions.
When I visited, she hid in her room, which my friend said was normal if a neighbor or anyone stopped by and I shouldn’t take it personally. One time when she answered the door because her mother wasn’t home, the teen told me not to speak to her as if she were a child. I thought I had attempted to converse in an adult manner, but maybe the underlying judgmental tone of my voice told her otherwise.
I remembered the psychic’s prediction and although I knew the meaning of humanitarian, I checked the definition in case there was more to it than I understood. As a noun, it means one who is devoted to the promotion of human welfare and the advancement of social reforms. I wondered how the girl could live up to that image when she apparently cared so little for humans. The adjective means showing concern for the welfare of humanity especially in action to improve the living conditions of impoverished people. That didn’t fit either.
I didn’t see the child or her mother for a few years until they invited me to the daughter’s high school graduation party. I mustered up the courage to talk with the graduate when she stood alone at the punch table. She greeted me with a smile—I had never seen her smile. I asked what she would do now that school was over.
In slow, articulate speech, she said, “I’m going out of state to college. Several universities back east accepted me. I can drive now and I’m leaving tomorrow to check them out. I’ll attend the one that has the best program for improving the lives of animals. My world-wide goal is to make them all safe and happy.”
Her mother had come over to us and stood behind her daughter. “She won’t let me go with her.” I didn’t tell my friend that I wasn’t surprised. I sensed the girl couldn’t wait to put miles between them.
Astounded by her transformation, I looked up the word baptism when I returned home. My interpretation of the listed three symbols helped me understand the girl’s growing up years. The first symbol is death, putting to death the old way of life, through excruciating crucifixion. The next symbol is burial. In baptism, total immersion is like a complete burial. The third symbol is resurrection where one walks in newness of life as a completely different person.
In spite of her own actions, the symbolic death and crucifixion the girl suffered all those previous years garnered my sympathy now. No one, including me, understood her at that time. She probably experienced the second symbol of burial in school, when she immersed herself in studies. As for the third symbol, the psychic had foreseen the angel who would resurrect to improve living conditions for those in need. The girl bonded with animals, not humans. She has concern for their welfare and wants to devote her life to them. I believe she’ll be triumphant.
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