Mended Fabric, Like Me – Turning Loss into Love, Thread by Thread

Mended Fabric, Like Me

When I wrote about Clara’s lavender dress—the one worn thin, stitched with memory—I knew exactly what that felt like.

Because I’ve worn that kind of fabric. 
And I’ve mended it, too.

After my husband died, I didn’t know what to do with my hands. So I started sewing and crocheting things out of his clothes. Not just for me—but for our grandchildren. Little treasures made from Papa’s shirts and jeans, filled with memory and love.

One of them loved dinosaurs. So, I crocheted a dinosaur and stitched one of Papa’s old belt loops into a collar. 

Another wears a fox hat with the Wrangler tag tucked into the lining. 

The one we call Ladybug? She has a little purse with flowers and ladybugs—and the strap is made from the seam of his jeans. 

And the youngest, our sweet Bee? She has a soft crocheted bee, with an old button sewn into its back. A button he carried every day. We named it Papa’s Bumble Button Bee.

For myself, I made a purse from his jeans. And on the hardest days—the meetings, the paperwork, the moments when I felt so alone—I would reach inside and rub the tag I’d sewn there. Just to remind myself I wasn’t doing this without him. That I still carried him. That he was with me, stitched into every step.

Sometimes mending is more than fabric.

Sometimes it’s the quiet decision to turn loss into love, piece by piece. 

And sometimes, the thread that holds us together isn’t visible at all—but it’s there. Just like him. Just like grace.

Clara’s dress was soft from wear, and stitched with memory. 

So am I.

The same way I stitched memory into fabric, Clara’s lavender dress is stitched into the heart of Letters from Willow Creek.

—Juliet