As I share the stories behind my quilts, I also want to be honest about some hard truths. One of those truths is that I wrestle deeply with my faith. It’s something I may open up about here when I feel brave enough. Another is that the invisible wound of adoption has profoundly affected me. It’s hard to put that feeling into words, but my parents have bore the brunt of its force.
My feelings toward religion have not always been so nuanced. In fact, I often credit Catholicism when I talk about what has influenced my life and work, even as someone who identifies as agnostic. Growing up with a Catholic deacon as a father and an Italian mother, it would be difficult for me to not mention my religious upbringing at least once or twice when posed the question: “What inspires you and your work?”
“Bring them to church. Saturate their lives with the Word of God. Even if they lay on the floor. Even if they need 437 goldfish and a sucker to be quiet. Even if you stand in the back swaying back and forth holding them. Even when it’s hard. Even when your row looks like a small hurricane just came through. Bring them to church. Let them see you worship. Let them see you pray. Let them see you running toward the Savior ... because if they don’t see and learn these things from you, who are they going to learn them from?
The world will teach them it’s not a priority. The world will teach them it’s okay to lay out, not to pick up their Bibles. The world will direct them so far off course, confuse them, and misinform them that just being “good” is enough. The world won’t teach them about Jesus. That’s our job.”
When my dad shared this quote on Facebook in March, it reminded me of the days when I enjoyed attending Mass. I sometimes still do, but only when I’m home.
When I think of my childhood, I remember the comfort of church. A core memory of mine is resting my face against my mother’s chest, the scent of her perfume, and the warmth of her bosom as I fell in and out of consciousness listening to her heart beat or the sound of her singing, or the sound of my father’s voice from the pulpit, or his homily as he paced the altar. I know the sound of those steps. Church felt like home. But I’m older now and my relationship with faith is strained. Yet, I still consider its influence on my life one of the greatest.
This quilt is inspired by the story of Palm Sunday and the relationship, specifically, between my father and I.
The textiles used include silk ties, hospital scrubs, blouses, and hints of cotton to represent the vestment he wears each Sunday. There’s new fabric, too; a reminder of his continued investment in me, like the time he took a leap of faith and helped me purchase a quilt shop. My father spent his entire career climbing the ranks of a hospital laboratory, where he started as a college intern in scrubs. He had quite a tie collection by the time he retired as its director.
Each block is fashioned in a style to represent a palm frond, much like those laid before Jesus as he entered Jerusalem. Much like the ones my brothers taught me how to fold neatly in to crosses and other woven objects every Palm Sunday.
If you know the story of Palm Sunday, you know what followed Jesus' triumphant entry into Jerusalem. The relationship between my parents and I also took an unexpected turn in my teen years. It was a wild and sudden storm of confusion and hurt. I lashed out, tested boundaries, and pushed my parents away. I cursed. Lied. Stole. I overdosed on drugs. Dropped out of school. I gave birth to a baby. I was barely 17 and completely unhinged.
No matter how outrageous my behavior, my father saw past the anger, the way Jesus saw past the fickle crowds. He saw a pained child, in need of love and a safe harbor. Just as Jesus endured his trials with quiet strength, my dad shouldered my outbursts with unwavering patience. To say the least, my teen years were tumultuous. In our house, days and nights were filled with prayer and a quiet desperation for things to change.
A turning point for me arrived unexpectedly in the emergency room, where I was reunited with my parents after my most recent bender. I was 16. I don’t remember much, but I remember my dad’s weathered face. As he reached out his hand, placing my palm in his, I felt immense shame. I also felt his reassurance that it was safe to connect with him again.
The years that followed were filled with rebuilding trust, more failure, forgiveness and grace. Four years later I found myself in that same hospital. This time I was not in a drug-induced crisis, I was an employee of its laboratory. I also gave birth to a second child (the one I was a able to keep), and I had her baptized by my father in our community parish. It felt good to watch him cup her in his hands as he raised her up for all to see. I had a lot of faith in that moment.
I owe a debt of gratitude to my father’s unwavering faith in me. Or maybe I owe it to his faith in God? Either way, I am better for it.