An old woman sat on the porch of a small home, barely more than a shack, on the edge of the tiny town of Dover. Her tatting shuttle flew back and forth in her gnarled old hands as the delicate lace materialized.
This was one of her favorite things to do. So many of her past favorites were no longer possible for her, but she didn’t want to dwell on that. Unbidden memories bombarded her of past gardens, long walks, time with friends, and the sweet times she had going to church. "Goodness knows I can hardly keep my own house clean these days." She looked down at her swollen feet.
"Now, I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about those things," she chided herself. "I can still tat. I can sit here on my front porch, enjoy the weather and pray for all my old friends, the few that are still alive. There I go again!"
She looked at the pile of tatted doilies she had completed. "I can still make beautiful doilies," she told herself, "but what am I going to do with so many?" Looking up to the clouds in the blue sky she asked, "LORD, what am I here for? You have a reason for everything. If I wasn’t needed, you would have taken me home by now. I sure can’t see what it is, Lord. All I can do is tat."
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