The Quilt by T. Davis Bunn

was put in the oven and the temperature set on low. Bread dough was placed on the counter to rise and covered with a damp cloth. The women chatted with Mary and marked out the work completed the day before and laughed quite a lot. There was a sense of anticipation in the room, a feeling that the little girl inside each of them was let loose to laugh and chase sunbeams and share a little of the joy they thought locked away forever.
    Most mornings the ladies would only stay an hour and then hurry back to what they had come to call the outside world. Mary would see them off the way she greeted them, with a soft smile and a blessing and a few words to show how wonderful it was to have them stop by. The ladies would always hesitate by the door, feeling pushed to go, regretting that they were leaving, and sort of wondering down deep if maybe that push they were feeling to depart was not truly as urgent as they made it out to be.
    Every few minutes, Mary would remind them of their purpose, their responsibility to say a prayer of thanks with each stitch sewn. It doesn’t matter if this quilt takes another twenty years, Mary would say a dozen times a day. What is important is that we all, each and every one of us, remember what it’s like to be grateful.
    That morning Jody waited until the room was pretty full, then said she had something she wanted to talk about. She found she couldn’t address the room directly. With a shyness she hadn’t known for years, she turned to Mary and talked, though her words were meant for all the room.
    â€œI found the prettiest Bible passage last night, Momma,” Jody said.
    Lately Mary had been spending more and more time just sitting and looking out the window, the work lying unattended in her lap. She turned at the sound of her name, blinked a few times as though not remembering where she was or why the people were there, said, “What’s that, child?”
    â€œA Bible passage I found last night,” Jody said, feeling somehow very young and very embarrassed.
    â€œIsn’t that nice,” Mary said, bringing the room into focus with her smile. “Why don’t you read it for us.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” Jody opened her Bible, said, “It’s from the hundredth Psalm.”

    Enter his gates with thanksgiving
and his courts with praise;
give thanks to him and praise his name.
For the Lord is good and his love
endures forever;
his faithfulness continues through
all generations.

    â€œI’ve always loved that passage,” Mary said, nodding her head very slowly, as though the effort was almost too much for her. “Why don’t you tell us how that spoke to your heart?”
    â€œWell,” Jody said, patting at wayward hair with movements made jerky by her nervousness. “I just read it and kind of saw myself walking into the presence of the Lord, like it says. And the way I could do it was by praising His name.”
    She made a little gesture as if she were trying to grab words out of the air, searching to find a way to say it so that the emotion she had felt would live for the others. “It was so beautiful there, with this love and light and everything. And I saw how all the things that I worried about were shadows that kept me from seeing what I really needed to do, which was be thankful.”
    Mary waited until she was sure Jody was finished, and said softly, “Child, you don’t know how those words make me feel.”
    With visible effort Mary rose to her feet, and the room saw that the lady could not stand upright. She leaned over slightly, her right arm bent up like a broken chicken wing. She held it close to her side, pressing in to keep some unseen pain from escaping and submerging her. And those in the room felt their hearts stand still.
    Jody was up and beside her before Mary could take her first step. “Momma, what’s the matter?”
    â€œBe an angel and help me back to the bedroom,”