Stitch Inspirational Quotes

Love is what carries you, for it is always there, even in the dark, or most in the dark, but shining out at times like gold stitches in a piece of embroidery.

Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten

Brave is being scared and doing what needs to be done anyway

We stitch together quilts of meaning to keep us warm and safe, with whatever patches of beauty and utility we have on hand.

My hand-stitched wings itch to take flight to test the winds of change that inevitably blow at the end of a cycle.

Winning cannot become your habit unless defeats have torn you apart and you sit in the battle field stitching back yourself one piece at a time laughing in the faces of all defeats.

We are all stitches in a fabric too vast to comprehend. But perhaps that is a good thing, for it means we are always exactly where we need to be.

You couldn't be more wrong", I said. "You are buying into the cross-stitched sentiments of your parents' throw pillows. You're arguing that the fragile, rare thing is beautiful simply because it is fragile and rare. But that's a lie, and you know it." "You're a hard person to comfort" , Augustus said. "Easy comfort isn't comforting", I said. "You were a rare and fragile flower once. You remember." For a moment he said nothing. "You do know how to shut me up, Hazel Grace." "It's my privilege and responsibility," I answered.

We all lose a few battles in our lives, but we can win the war.

الحب غرفة عمليات.. فيه المبضع، وفيه القُطب

Ohana means family, family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten.

Stories suture up our wounds, stitch us back together. They keep our loved ones alive.

Emezi revealed the title for You Made a Fool of Death with Your Beauty was inspired by the song “Hunger” by Florence + The Machine, stating that listening to the band “stitched me together when my spirit was pulling itself apart.

Love is an operation theatre, where you find the scalpel and the stitches

Butterfly Kisses Aged imperfections stitched upon my face years and years of wisdom earned by His holy grace. Quiet solitude in a humble home all the family scattered now like nomads do they roam. Then a gift sent from above a memory pure and tangible wrapped in innocence and unquestioning love. A butterfly kiss lands gently upon my cheek from an unseen child a kiss most sweet. Heaven grants grace and tears follow as youth revisits this empty hollow.

To be of honey and flames....diamond and dust...tender and fierce....laughter and sobs...is to know softness and courage in the same skin...for stitched are they in the fabric of womanhood.

What a paradox: that we connect with God, with divinity, in our flesh and blood and time and space. We connect with God in our humanity. A great truth, attributed to Emily Dickinson, is that “hope inspires the good to reveal itself.” This is almost all I ever need to remember. Gravity and sadness yank us down, and hope gives us a nudge to help one another get back up or to sit with the fallen on the ground, in the abyss, in solidarity.

Try telling the boy who’s just had his girlfriend’s name cut into his arm that there’s slippage between the signifier and the signified. Or better yet explain to the girl who watched in the mirror as the tattoo artist stitched the word for her father’s name (on earth as in heaven) across her back that words aren’t made of flesh and blood, that they don’t bite the skin. Language is the animal we’ve trained to pick up the scent of meaning. It’s why when the boy hears his father yelling at the door he sends the dog that he’s kept hungry, that he’s kicked, then loved, to attack the man, to show him that every word has a consequence, that language, when used right, hurts.

Pity moment, blah! Let’s turn it around! We do not even need to go into the story of it. We acknowledge this moment and release it. We love and accept and forgive ourselves. And we acknowledge that this is a tiny stitch, a brief pinprick in the needlepoints we are creating of our lives. And we also acknowledge that this lifetime of ours is but a tiny little stitch in the ever-expanding, infinite needlepoint of the Universe. Self-pity is not a reason good enough for us to be out of alignment with peace.

think humans might be so uncomfortable with transition periods because we don’t give ourselves the right to be lonely and uncomfortable like lobsters do. We’re so often told, “Focus on the positive. Choose happiness. Good vibes only” that we feel like something must be wrong with us when we’re not a living, breathing inspirational cross-stitch pillow.

I know the fabric of love is fragile and yet I never saw the stitches break.

It’s not that easy. Loss needs to be experienced. It should be felt in all it’s beautiful and horrible ways. When your heart is shredded like fraying fabric and dangling in pieces, the scotch tape method isn’t going to work long term. Careful stitching and honest grieving is necessary to put things back into place. Maybe not perfectly, but at least in a way so you can breathe again.

Anyway, there are two tentative solutions for getting rid of selfishness - both involving a stoic casting - off of the thin tenuous little identity which I love and cherish so dearly - and being confident that, once on the other side, I shall never miss my own little ambitions for my conceited self, but shall be content in serving the ambitions of my mate, or of a society, or cause. (Yet I will not, I cannot accept any of those solutions. Why? Stubborn selfish pride. I will not make what is inevitable easier for my-self by the blinding ignorance-is-bliss "losing-and-finding" theory. Oh, no! I will go, eyes open, into my torture, and remain fully cognizant, unwinking, while they cut and stitch and lop off my cherished malignant organs.) So much for selflove: I carry it with me like a dear cancerous relative - to be disposed of only when desperation sets in.

Kestrel, seeking to change the subject, asked about something that Arin had said. It had been like a needle in a dark part of her mind, stitching invisible patterns. “Did the Herrani enjoy trading with Valorians before the war?” “Oh, yes. Your people always had gold for Herrani goods. Valoria was our biggest buyer of exports.” “But did we have a reputation for something else? Besides being rich and savage, with no manners.” Enai took a sip of tea, peering at Kestrel over the cup’s rim. Kestrel grew uncomfortable, and hoped Enai wouldn’t ask what inspired these questions. But the woman only said, “You were known for your beauty. Of course, that was before the war.” “Yes,” said Kestrel softly. “Of course.

That meant there was hope. Hope that a mother's love would pull a son back to her. Hope that the world would learn from its mistakes and build friendships where enmity had reigned. There was hop that someday this stitched-together family they'd claimed for themselves would be whole.

…The truth: dreaming is lonely the further away the closer to this one time No one has held me for so long Days stitch and nights weave longing Time watches over our loneliness and regrets what’s half lost We must and wait, dreaming of the vision that inspires us The journey is the charm that brings us together…

And that's what we'll do every day. If you or your friends spray-paint obscenities on our walls, we'll scrub them off, and the people will come. if you break our windows, we'll fix them, and the people will come. If you hurt us, we'll wash off the blood, slap on some bandages and the people will come...any wound you inflict, we'll stitch up. We're not going to stop, no matter what you do. This work is too important. Too many lives are at stake.

Blessed and fortunate creature, your eyes shall behold Him and not another's. All that you are, sins apart, is destined, if you will let God have His good way, to utter satisfaction. The Brocken spectre 'looked to every man like his first love', because she was a cheat. But God will look to every soul like its first love because He is its first love. Your place in heaven will seem to be made for you and you alone, because you were made for it--made for it stitch by stitch as a glove is made for a hand

In 2017 India’s nationalist government hoisted one of the largest flags in the world at Attari on the Indo-Pakistan border, in a gesture calculated to inspire neither renunciation nor disinterestedness, but rather Pakistani envy. That particular Tiranga was 36 metres long and 24 metres wide, and was hoisted on a 110-metre-high flag post (what would Freud have said about that?). The flag could be seen as far as the Pakistani metropolis of Lahore. Unfortunately, strong winds kept tearing the flag, and national pride required that it be stitched together again and again, at great cost to Indian taxpayers.11 Why does the Indian government invest scarce resources in weaving enormous flags, instead of building sewage systems in Delhi’s slums? Because the flag makes India real in a way that sewage systems do not.

Hating the Rain She hates the ever-falling winter rain, the gray and endless humidity that bites to the bone and stings even after the hot bath and stiff struggle into bed and under the quilts, but the winter ferns, and the way they wave in a slight breeze as though happy like grandmother’s lace curtains can’t be abandoned or lived without. She hates the endless dripping like a clock ticking away life and the heavy fog that swallows light as though life itself were vanishing, but the tree frogs with their songs and their clinging to matching green like family holding together stitch her thoughts back to July picnics. She hates her complaining voice that discourages her children’s calls and encourages their urgings that she move, maybe to Florida citrus sun, but gray day softness steeps her patience and quiets her fear of loss into something like gratitude clinging like green to summer moss and this she knows: she loves the rain.

Finally, it was all finished. September was quite proud of herself, and we may be proud of her, too, for certainly I have never made a boat so quickly, and I daresay only one or two of you have ever pulled off such a trick. All she lacked was a sail. September thought for a good while, considering what Lye, the soap golem, had said: "Even if you've taken off every stitch of clothing, you will still have your secrets, your history, your true name. It's hard to be really naked. You have to work hard at it. Just getting into a bath isn't being naked, not really. It's just showing skin. And foxes and bears have skin, too, so I shan't be ashamed if they're not." 'Well, I shan't be! My dress, my sail!' cried September aloud, and wriggled out of her orange dress. She tied the sleeves to the top of the mast and the tips of the skirt to the bottom. The wind puffed it out obligingly. She took off the Marquess's dreadful shoes and wedged them between the sceptres. There she stood, her newly shorn hair flying in every direction, naked and fierce, with the tide coming in.

I decide that candor is probably best, that I will never see this woman again after this month. “I’m honestly not sure why I’m here, other than I feel like I could use some spiritual direction in my life.” This is the truth. “Why do you feel that way?” Nora asks. I sit for a few seconds, because this is a good question. I’m not terribly sure, other than my soul is weary, my usual recipe of prayer and reflecting on passages from the Bible isn’t inspiring me, and I sense a gaping, run-ragged hole in my soul where mature wisdom should be. Also, I don’t know where my home is, where I might really belong. Years have passed since I last felt poured-into, I tell her, and I have not bothered to seek it out. I have embarked on this year of travel, at age thirty-seven, feeling less confident than I did a decade ago about what I believe to be true, and how that truth intersects with who I am. I am weary from game playing and formulaic answers, and the evangelical-Christian hat that I have worn daily with every outfit since I was fourteen feels too small, headache inducing. I fidget daily in its discomfort, but I don’t know how to exchange it, how it should be resized. Perhaps I can stitch a new hat from scraps I find scattered around the globe, I suggest. Perhaps she could be my milliner, maybe help me find the first scrap, floating somewhere along the sidewalks of old Chiang

Stories I read and people I love, conversations I have had, dreams I’ve lost and found, these all become part of me, embedded in my DNA, and if they are lucky, eventually, these things I cherish will be stitched into patchworks of poetry.

That meant there was hope. Hope that a mother's love would pull a son back to her. Hope that the world would learn from its mistakes and build friendships where enmity had reigned. There was hope that someday this stitched-together family they'd claimed for themselves would be whole.

Days into the 18-week program, Judge was excelling. He had a strong work ethic, could perform tasks necessary for crowd control and building searches, and navigated wet floors and stairwells with ease. But when it came to apprehending people acting the parts of criminals in arrest scenarios, “He wouldn't let the person go, Franks remembers with a smile. “And when I would try to take him off the person, he would then turn and bite me.” It happened five or six times, according to Franks, who made several trips to the emergency room and even received 10 stitches across his nose. But one of the ace trainers at the school told him, “If you can stick with it, I promise you will get a great; dog.” He and Judge worked things out. And he got a great dog.

Quotes From The Whipping Boyfriend Dora was thinking how the mind of a child is like a patchwork quilt. They stitched together a piece here and a piece there to cover themselves when things got a little too scary and confusing. Dora wondered if adults did the same thing or just kept using the quilts they made as children. p. 182

Shirt" The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams, The nearly invisible stitches along the collar Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break Or talking money or politics while one fitted This armpiece with its overseam to the band Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter, The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union, The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven. One hundred and forty-six died in the flames On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes— The witness in a building across the street Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step Up to the windowsill, then held her out Away from the masonry wall and let her drop. And then another. As if he were helping them up To enter a streetcar, and not eternity. A third before he dropped her put her arms Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held Her into space, and dropped her. Almost at once He stepped to the sill himself, his jacket flared And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down, Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers— Like Hart Crane’s Bedlamite, “shrill shirt ballooning.” Wonderful how the pattern matches perfectly Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme Or a major chord. Prints, plaids, checks, Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. The clan tartans Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian, To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor, Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers To wear among the dusty clattering looms. Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader, The docker, the navvy. The planter, the picker, the sorter Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields: George Herbert, your descendant is a Black Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit And feel and its clean smell have satisfied Both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality Down to the buttons of simulated bone, The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape, The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.

The world is a woven basket. Every stitch counts.

I remember when I was five playing tag with Cara and her brother. I accidentally got pushed into the side of her trampoline, and I bit the inside of my mouth. Blood gushed everywhere. Cara’s mom held me until my parents came back. I didn’t need stitches, but it was nasty. I roll my tongue over a small bump on the side of my mouth. Yep. It’s still there. Real friendships have battle scars.

As soon as he left, Lex closed the curtain back up, flung herself at the bed, and shook Driggs. “Wake up!” she half yelled, half whispered. “Driggs!” His eyes fluttered. “Wha? Where are we?” “Hospital.” Lex started unplugging the tubes in his arm. “I summoned it into existence, or I opened up a wormhole, or maybe a giant goddamn eagle showed up to fly us here and save the day—I don’t know! But we have to leave. Now.” Driggs looked down at his chest. “I’ve got like fifty stitches here.” “Your courage in the face of adversity is an inspiration to us all.” She pulled at his shoulders. “Now GET UP.” The sound of hurried footsteps pounded through the smoke. Lex held her breath as the curtain swooshed open. “She’s right,” Uncle Mort said to Driggs. “We gotta go.” Driggs nearly fell out of the bed as Lex dropped him to go hug her uncle. “Where have you been?” she asked him. “Where have I been?” Uncle Mort looked incredulous. “You never cease to amaze, kiddo.” “Ow!” Driggs was doubled over. “Little help here?” Lex ran back to his side. “Sorry.” She grabbed his torn-up hoodie from the chair, put her shoulder under his arm, and looked at Uncle Mort. “Now what?” He nodded toward the exit. “We leave.

It was a bright day for me when I realised there wasn’t any one way to live as myself. You’re not a character. You have as many sides and reflections as the ripples that pass through a river in the spring. Don’t trick yourself into thinking you must be one person. Because you will never be only one person. Not even in the span of a day are you only one person. We are worlds stitched inside skin. There’s nothing small or simple about a world. There’s nothing small or simple about any living being. Remember this the next time someone tells you who to be and how to live. They haven’t figured it out yet. But don’t let yourself forget.

In the tapestry of life, our habits are the threads that bind our fate, stitching together the story of who we are and who we strive to become.

Hand-sewing is calming to me, and I chose to stitch my dress entirely machine-free. For whimsy and inspiration, I’ve selected some thread in a pretty shade of moss-green and continue to embroider quotes along the hems as fancy strikes. Joy Harjo: Remember the earth whose skin you are. Walt Whitman: I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love… Your very flesh shall be a great poem… Now and then I wear the dress on a forest walk, letting it become accustomed to roots and soil. If

Hand-sewing is calming to me, and I chose to stitch my dress entirely machine-free. For whimsy and inspiration, I’ve selected some thread in a pretty shade of moss-green and continue to embroider quotes along the hems as fancy strikes. Joy Harjo: Remember the earth whose skin you are. Walt Whitman: I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love… Your very flesh shall be a great poem… Now and then I wear the dress on a forest walk, letting it become accustomed to roots and soil. If any of these practices and ponderings sound glib or overly lighthearted, know that they are defense mechanisms. Naps upon decaying trees. Sewing of shrouds. Skulls of birds and coyotes enshrined as memento mori on the shelves of my study—I contemplate them daily in the palms of my hands, their intricate post-purpose: Remember. All of this is an attempt at a reckoning with the end of my own life, the constant presence of an inevitability I am as yet unable to fully brook. Some say peace with death descends upon us as we age, and perhaps this is so. For now, I struggle and I stitch.

Like a masterful stitch embellishes fabric, the right words intricately weave beauty into the tapestry of life.

Papa tells me, “Be patient with yourself, one stitch at a time. By going too fast, you can miss the details of the process. It’s best to take your time and enjoy each moment.

I nod. “Yeah, I’ve gotten into raunchy hand lettering.” He laughs out loud, his head falling back. “What do you mean by raunchy?” “Well, I started out with inspirational quotes, because that’s what all the books teach you. I like to write on blank cards and send them to people. Well, ‘Believe in Yourself’ was getting boring, so I took up more raunchy sayings. You know how ladies are now cross-stitching swear words? Consider that me, but with a calligraphy pen.” “That’s amazing. Tell me one of your favorites.” We move forward in line as I think about it. “Well, last night I made a sign for my bathroom, which reminds me I need to get a frame for it. It says, ‘Please don’t do coke in the bathroom.’” Linus chuckles. “That’s a reasonable request.” “I sent a card to my brother that said, ‘Don’t be a douche canoe.’ I drew a little canoe in the middle. He liked it a lot. There’s just something special about using pretty handwriting to say rotten things.

Do you see my diamond-studded smile and passion-filled eyes? It’s because I’m in that stage of my life where I have nothing to prove to anyone. There is no elaborate pretence and no lavish ostentations. Genuineness smoulders in yellow gold, and I carry integrity on my eyelids. I stitch virtue, ornately and intricately, in every feather of my powder silver wings, which thrusts me past the iridescent rainbow where my ambitions soar high amid the dappled blanket of the sky. This is I; the stronger me, the happier me and the empowered me.

Don't dwell on what isn't here. Dwell on what is. A perfumed breeze, hot tea, rich biscuits, a warm blanket, a purring kitten. And me. That last is the hardest. Focus on being in the moment with myself, comfortable in my own company.

One of the things that was destroyed when we crashed into the mountain was our connection to society. But our ties to one another grew stronger every day. What we did was stabilize the injury and stitch together new ties made of metal and glass, of strength and sensitivity, of intelligence and emotion, to protect us as a group and not as isolated individuals. We survived together, like separate organs working together to save the body as a whole.

Faith and mythology, in their profoundest sense, are the twin pillars that uphold the vast cathedral of human consciousness. They are the intertwined roots that nourish our understanding of existence, grounding us in the fertile soil of the unknown. Faith, is the audacious whisper in the heart of man, defying the chasm of uncertainty with its unwavering resonance. It is the audacity to trust in the unseen, to hear the unspoken, and to pursue the uncharted. It is the flame that illuminates the caverns of our deepest fears, casting shadows on our doubts, and lighting the path to our truest selves. Meanwhile, mythology is the grand tapestry we weave to contain the boundless cosmos within the finite landscapes of our minds. It is the narrative thread that stitches together the fabric of our collective consciousness, painting vibrant portraits of gods and monsters, of heroes and villains, of creation and destruction. Mythology gives form to faith, translating the abstract into the tangible, the divine into the comprehensible, the eternal into the temporal. It is the language of symbols, narrating the timeless tales of the human spirit dancing with the cosmos' infinite possibilities. Yet, both faith and mythology are but reflections in the mirror of existence, shimmering illusions that hint at a reality far beyond our comprehension. They are the echoes of the universe whispering its secrets to those daring enough to listen, the gentle lullabies that soothe our existential anxieties, the sweet honey that makes the bitter pill of the unknown more palatable. They are not the ultimate answers to life's mysteries, but the beautiful questions that keep us seeking, exploring, and wondering. They are the compass and the map, guiding us on our endless quest for truth, reminding us that the journey, not the destination, is the essence of existence.

The sky is embroidered with celestial jewels...and the gleam is revealed through the stripping of obscurity....for darkness comes only to unveil the stars stitched into a galaxy...

She took his hand, and he arranged her in waltz position. “Close your eyes.” Why not? She closed her eyes, the better to enjoy his fragrance, the better to enjoy the fiction that they might, even in this parlor, indulge in a few steps of the dance. The door was open, in any case. Let the footmen think what they would. “You will let me lead you in an exploration of the letter e.” He gathered her closer and moved off with her, slowly but confidently. Three steps up, a little shift, andthree steps back. Another shift, and the same pattern, again and again. “You’re making a chain stitch with me.” “You have maligned a perfectly agreeable letter, Miss Danforth. A simple loop exists not to confound you, but to pleasure your hand in its making.” Or her entire body. He danced wonderfully, and to be held like this—Milly’s opinion of the letter e underwent a drastic revision. “I think you have it, madam, but now we will venture on to the letter l.” She liked the letter l even better, because it was six steps up, and six steps back, a more ambitious undertaking in the small parlor. “There are two l’s in Millicent,” she said. And for no reason, no reason at all, this inspired her to lay her cheek against his chest. They e’d and l’d and o’d (as in Danforth) a while longer before St. Clair came to a gliding halt.

You have grown a backbone where your wishbone used to be. You have learned how to say no, you have learned how to walk away. Do you remember when they broke you? It felt like life as you knew it was over. It felt like your rib cage cracked apart. You have rebuilt yourself; you have stitched loss into gain, sadness into joy.

Some say that Homosexuals are an obamination, Disney says that Stitch is an Obamiation, I say that the United States Government is the True Obamiation.

Pick up any photograph of Ted Williams in 1943 and there’s a good chance you’ll see him seated on a footlocker beside Babe Ruth or perched on a chipped cement wall wearing a jersey stitched with dark blue Navy insignia. Many of those photographs were taken while he was training in Chapel Hill and they tell a story about the summer Ted changed.

The gift of the Threads of the Spirit is to believe that in every stitch that is placed within our tapestry, it has a divine hand guiding it along. Although the paths and choices we opt to follow may be of our own design, it is with His loving hand that we are able to stitch our worries and burdens with steadfast faith. In giving it up to God and praying for His assistance, our tapestry's picture is forever forged with ethereal designs and guidance.

Forest by Maisie Aletha Smikle In the forest there lived a man Who was chased from his land They took his toil As their spoil They wine and dine And drank his fine wine They took his precious coin And bank it like a mine Like pirates they hoard and stash Heaping loot on top of loot No one dare to ask From whence such treasure came But took taxes, bribes and gifts Like Christmas comes on shifts The looters chimed and said We are not Robin Wood Who took from the rich And gave to the poor So the poor could have more Instead we are wood robins That take from the poor And give to the rich So the rich can have more O what a stitch While the wealthy is richer Another is that much poorer Robin Wood is outlawed And wood robin is in the law Indeed it is flawed Robin Wood is wood robin The spoils only shift From the poor to the rich

In those days, the ancient rainforests spread from Northern California to southeastern Alaska in a band between the mountains and the sea. Here is where the fog drips. Here is where the moisture-laden air from the pacific rises against the mountains to produce upward of one hundred inches of rain a year, watering an ecosystem rivaled nowhere else on earth. The biggest trees in the world. Trees that were born before Columbus sailed. And trees are just the beginning. The numbers of species of mammals, birds, amphibians, wildflowers, ferns, mosses, lichens, fungi, and insects are staggering. It's hard to write without running out of superlatives, for these were among the greatest forests on earth, forests peopled with centuries of past lives, enormous logs and snags that foster more life after their death than before. The canopy is a multi-layered sculpture of vertical complexity from the lowest moss on the forest floor to the wisps of lichen hanging high in the treetops, raggedy and uneven from the gaps produced by centuries of windthrow, disease, and storms. This seeming chaos belies the tight web of inter-connections between them all, stitched with filaments of fungi, silk of spiders, and silver threads of water. Alone is a word without meaning in this forest.

Examine any Slow Fix, and you often find one person who embodies or even supplies the underlying vision, who stitches together the team, acts as a hub for the network or a lightning rod for the crowd, who inspires others to strive, make sacrifices, and overcome the resistance and inertia that the most ambitious problem solving always entails.

After everyone was seated and the footmen had begun serving, Helen turned to Winterborne, determined to overcome her shyness. “I see your cast has been removed, Mr. Winterborne. I trust you’re mending well?” He gave her a guarded nod. “Quite well, thank you.” She repeatedly smoothed the napkin on her lap. “I can hardly find words to thank you for the music box. It’s the most beautiful gift I’ve ever received.” “I hoped it would please you.” “It does.” As Helen looked into his eyes, it occurred to her that someday this man might have the right to kiss her…hold her in intimacy…They would do whatever mysterious things occurred between a husband and wife. A terrible blush began, the pervasive, self-renewing color that only he seemed to inspire. Desperate to halt its progress, she lowered her gaze to his shirt collar, and then a bit lower, tracking the perfect straight line of a hand-stitched seam. “I see Mr. Quincy’s influence,” she found herself saying. “The shirt?” Winterborne asked. “Aye, the contents of every wardrobe, drawer, and trunk have been under siege since Quincy arrived.

another Muslim woman took office alongside her. Rashida Tlaib, representative for Michigan’s 13th Congressional District, was the other first Muslim woman in Congress. Rashida boasted yet another first: She was first in her family to graduate from high school. The daughter of Palestinian immigrants, a single mother of two boys, and the oldest of fourteen children, Rashida had blasted through other people’s expectations of what it meant to be a Palestinian American woman. And at every step, she was taking all of her heritage with her, proudly representing Michigan and Palestine. At her congressional swearing-in ceremony, Rashida wore a floor-length, long-sleeved black and red thobe, the quintessentially Palestinian dress, which is typically hand-embroidered by women from Palestinian villages. The stitching and styles vary across Palestine, but thobes with lavish designs are worn to mark special occasions, such as puberty, motherhood, and now entry of a Palestinian American woman into the United States Congress. Rashida posted a close-up of her thobe on Instagram.

Cast on a multiple of 4 sts Row 1: *K3, P1, repeat from * across row Row 2: K2, P1, *K3, P1, repeat from * across row, ending K1 Repeat rows 1 and 2 for pattern

A godly man can never be the reason for a woman's tears unless they are tears of joy. In her life, he is a sentinel against sorrow. When her tears become imminent, he becomes her shelter, not her storm. With his blessed hands, he does not carve wounds; he stitches brokenness with threads of compassion.

Enthusiasm is his armour. His thoughts create an elixir. Extraordinary acts flow from his fingertips. His mind transforms doubts into golden dreams. He stitches together grand visions. This is a man with an exceptional capacity to impact nations.