Any minute now, my sister-in-law, Virginia, would be arriving for the weekend and I wasn’t even dressed yet. There was too much to get done and no one to do it but me.
I still needed to wipe down the sink in the bathroom and put out a guest towel, set a box of tissues on her nightstand, make sure there weren’t any wrinkles in the bedspread.
I’d lived by myself since my husband died 26 years earlier. Times like this I wished I had someone to rely on for help.
The smell of corn bread and chicken casserole baking in the oven wafted through the house. An apple pie I’d just finished putting the top crust on was ready to go in next. Even though it was a lot of work, I’d planned a big lunch, like we do in the South.
“Don’t worry about entertaining me,” Virginia had told me the last time we talked, but I didn’t want her to think I’d forgotten my manners. I mean, everyone likes to feel like they’re being taken care of. I sure would, I thought as I wiped down the counter.
But I couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Being single I’d gotten used to taking care of everything myself.
Besides, this weekend was special. Virginia was coming for my oldest grandson’s wedding. I had my gifts wrapped in the front closet—an album filled with family photos and a quilt I’d had made out of a quilt top my husband’s mother passed down to me years ago.
I’d heard about a group of quilters at the local senior center and brought the quilt top to a woman there. “It’s gorgeous,” I said when I went back to pick up my finished quilt. “Like something you would hang on a wall.”
“You should see some of the quilts the other women here make,” she said. “In fact we’re having a show on Friday.”
Normally I would have dismissed the idea—Fridays were busy for me. But it sounded like something Virginia might like, so I wrote down the time of the show.
I opened the oven to check on the casserole. In the background the radio, always tuned to WYEA, my local classic rock/oldies station, played just about the only thing that would get me to slow down: Elvis! “Love me tender, love me sweet…”
There’s no one like Elvis, I thought, turning up the volume. I wasn’t into all the collectibles other people bought, but his voice made me feel like a teenager. Too bad the phone rang, interrupting his song.
What now? I thought. “Hello?”
“I’m sorry, I think I have the wrong number,” a man said. “But I wonder if you could help me anyway.”
The last thing I had time for was helping someone else.
“I’m from out of town,” the man explained. I could hear the sound of cars in the background, like he was on the road. “I read that there’s a quilt show at a senior center. Do you know anything about that?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” I said. “It’s on Friday.”
“Would you have the phone number? And do you know if it’s open to people from outside the area?”
“Well, I imagine it is,” I said, rummaging in a drawer for the paper where I’d written down the information about the show. “The place is called the Coosa Center, but I don’t have the phone number.”
“My mother makes the most beautiful quilts,” the man said, his voice as slow as molasses. I opened the oven door to look at my casserole as he talked. “She could really use the money from selling them.”
A woman on her own with bills to pay—I knew how that felt. She was just taking care of herself. I checked the phone book, but found nothing for the Coosa Center. “Call me in five minutes. I’ll find the number.”
I hung up and called the library. The reference desk said they’d call back when they had time. Meanwhile I took the corn bread out of the oven. Why isn’t that man looking up the number himself, I thought. You can’t just call a stranger and expect her to help you.
I turned on the faucet to clean the dishes—that gave me an idea. The place where I paid my water bill was across from the senior center. They might know the phone number.
I grabbed my latest bill and gave them a call. “We get this question a lot,” the woman at the water company said. “It’s listed under West Coosa Senior Center.”
I’d just written the number down when the stranger called me back. “This will mean so much to my mom,” he said. “She makes Elvis quilts. You ought to come see them.”
“Elvis quilts?” I said. Well, now I’d heard everything.
Virginia and I visited the show on Friday. Quilts filled the senior center, each more beautiful than the last. But one quilt in particular caught my eye right away.
It was bright red, with piano keys cascading all around it. And in the center was Elvis, dressed in a red sports jacket and tie, hips swiveling, a microphone in his hand. I was so awestruck it took me a second to figure out who the man standing beside the quilt must be.
“This must be your mother’s quilt,” I said. “And you must be my wrong number!” The man smiled a little sheepishly.
“To be honest, it wasn’t a wrong number,” he said. “I had no idea who to call for what I needed. I just asked God to guide me and punched in a random number. He put me right in touch with an angel.”
I couldn’t believe it. He just dialed any number and trusted someone would help him? That was crazy. But it worked. God had put him in touch with just the right person—me. If God would help him, maybe he’d help me the same way. Maybe I didn’t have to handle everything myself.
The Elvis quilts were a big hit at the show that day. But for me they were something more: a reminder that the world is full of angels ready to help us if we have faith enough to ask them.
View our slideshow of quilts featured at the West Coosa Senior Center's quilt show!
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