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I squinted to get a better look, but no matter how I turned my head, the paper still contained only a string of letters, which held little meaning for me. I looked down at the yarn in my lap and crochet hook in my hand. A frustrated noise escaped my mouth and I threw the contents of my hands on the floor.
“I don’t get it! It’s too hard!” I bit my lip to keep from crying, but my chin shook and the tears just wouldn’t be stopped.
Oma frowned slightly and looked at me over the rims of her reading glasses. “Come here, Liebchen.” She removed her glasses, letting them dangle from the silver chain she always wore around her neck. I snuggled into her and she ran her hands over my hair. My eight-year-old ego was fragile and she was better suited to soothe it, in my eyes, than anyone else in the world.
In a moment, my burst of tears slowed and she wiped my eyes, saying, “Well, then. Now you are ready for the secret, yes?” I sniffed loudly, and nodded.
“I let you choose the pattern. You picked it for its beauty. It is beautiful, no?” She smiled. “It is a flower made from a simple strand of yarn. But the pattern is harder than anything you’ve ever done. The stitches that work together to make this flower must be learned first, otherwise…” Her voice drifted off and she picked up the “flower” that I had made. With affection in her laugh, she said, “It just makes a mess.” I laughed too.
“Do what you know how to do, Liebchen. That is the secret. If you do it well and keep doing it, soon you will be surprised at the flowers you can make. “ She glanced at the Bible that lay open on the coffee table. “God knows this secret too. He lets us in on just what we need to know, when we need it and not a moment before.”
She leaned over and picked the yarn and hook from off of the floor. My eyes got large as I watched her begin to unravel my creation. When I started to protest, she held up her hand. “Liebchen, if you want to learn, we must do it again. And again if we have to. And each time it will be better.”
When she finished only a pile of yarn was left, puddled in her lap. My Oma reached out and took my hand. Her strong wrinkled hand closed over mine and as we sat together, she began to teach me the pattern—stitch by stitch.
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