When I unwrap the holiday ornaments the stiff snowflakes pause a moment in my hand, fashioned, starched in precise geometry by my mother, who stitched frugal threads into transcendence. Once I presented her with a bedspread from my husband’s family not quite finished, a long-forgotten interruption. She studied the pattern, dyed the thread to match someone else’s story, not unlike her dutiful life as pastor’s wife, mother of six. She sometimes tatted her fancies, a risky enterprise when mistakes could not be undone. She never felt the comfort of belonging, always outside an invisible, impenetrable barrier, until she looked out and saw that the circle was far more capacious and so she created a pattern of welcome for those who also felt unseen, unwanted, needed the offer of beauty she knitted and knotted from her humble, loving self.