
When I was a kid (and, I suspect, still) my church would raffle off a quilt every month. Tickets were $2 a piece, or 3 for $5. Every month, I would enter. After all, who can resist the siren song of gambling with someone else’s money? (Thanks, Grandma.) Every month, I didn’t win. But I never lost my appreciation for quilting. Not in an I-want-to-learn-how-to-do-that sort of way, though. Just in an I-want-one way. And now I own several (#blessed). The first quilt I acquired was one of those coveted church quilts, given to me by my grandmother as a wedding gift. A few were sewn and hand-tied by my husband’s great-grandmother. One was a memory quilt made out of my father-in-law’s t-shirts after he passed away. My most recent acquisition was one made by yet another in-law, who sews patches into the shape of an elephant or a donkey into a quilt, depending on the recipient’s political leanings. And every time I attend an estate sale, I struggle to convince myself that I have room to add to my collection. Quilting is beautiful in so many ways...