It’s been many years since I was in secondary school, but one assignment has stayed with me always. My class were supposed to write about someone over 70, so I decided to visit a nursing home.
I went to the office and explained my assignment. The director told me to go to Room Six. The room had a bed, a chair and a picture of a rose on the wall. An elderly woman was in the chair, knitting diligently.
When I knocked, she looked up and squinted, “Yes?”
“I’m supposed to write an essay for school,” I said nervously.
“Come in.” She stopped knitting and patted the bed. “Sit here.”
I sat down, and the woman returned to her knitting.
“What are you making?” I asked.
“God’s in my basket,” she answered.
I spoke a little louder. “What are you knitting? ”
She stopped again, smiled and repeated, “God’s in my basket.”
I looked around the room, and then glanced into her basket, just in case I might catch a glimpse of God.
“Oh, he is there,” she said. “I prayed for him to come, and he has.”
The woman returned to her knitting and didn’t say another word. Finally I thanked her and left.
“What did you think of her?” asked the director of the nursing home.
“She says God’s in her knitting basket,” I said. “I think she’s a little crazy.”
“She was when she first arrived,” the director said. “Her husband had died, and she was alone. I suggested she pray for peace, and she did. A few months later an aide taught her how to knit. In six months she was knitting socks for everyone. At the Christmas fair she sold over $1000 worth of socks, sweaters and blankets. She even taught knitting in school as a volunteer. She became the most popular person in the neighborhood.”
“What about now?” I asked. “Well, now she’s in her 90s and sick. But she can still knit, and she is at peace. And she says only one thing: God’s in her basket.”
Weeks later I received a package. Inside was a beautiful brown wool sweater just my size, along with a note from the nursing-home director:
Dear Christopher,
The woman you met here asked that we send you this gift. She thought you might like a piece of God to keep you warm.
She died three days ago. She was very happy.
I went to the office and explained my assignment. The director told me to go to Room Six. The room had a bed, a chair and a picture of a rose on the wall. An elderly woman was in the chair, knitting diligently.
When I knocked, she looked up and squinted, “Yes?”
“I’m supposed to write an essay for school,” I said nervously.
“Come in.” She stopped knitting and patted the bed. “Sit here.”
I sat down, and the woman returned to her knitting.
“What are you making?” I asked.
“God’s in my basket,” she answered.
I spoke a little louder. “What are you knitting? ”
She stopped again, smiled and repeated, “God’s in my basket.”
I looked around the room, and then glanced into her basket, just in case I might catch a glimpse of God.
“Oh, he is there,” she said. “I prayed for him to come, and he has.”
The woman returned to her knitting and didn’t say another word. Finally I thanked her and left.
“What did you think of her?” asked the director of the nursing home.
“She says God’s in her knitting basket,” I said. “I think she’s a little crazy.”
“She was when she first arrived,” the director said. “Her husband had died, and she was alone. I suggested she pray for peace, and she did. A few months later an aide taught her how to knit. In six months she was knitting socks for everyone. At the Christmas fair she sold over $1000 worth of socks, sweaters and blankets. She even taught knitting in school as a volunteer. She became the most popular person in the neighborhood.”
“What about now?” I asked. “Well, now she’s in her 90s and sick. But she can still knit, and she is at peace. And she says only one thing: God’s in her basket.”
Weeks later I received a package. Inside was a beautiful brown wool sweater just my size, along with a note from the nursing-home director:
Dear Christopher,
The woman you met here asked that we send you this gift. She thought you might like a piece of God to keep you warm.
She died three days ago. She was very happy.