Love and the Christmas Blanket



Little Kevin nestled on the couch next to his grandma. He loved watching her nimble hands work the long knitting needles. He couldn’t believe how those quick motions could create a soft blanket. 

He’d sit and watch as Grandma would tell him a story about the person she envisioned receiving the blanket.

This one was for a boy about his age, so it was  bright red and would have trucks and tanks and a tall climbing tree with a lookout on top. It would be lined with red fleece to keep him warm at night. Grandma always knitted the words, “Made with Love” along the trim.



…..ten years later



Kevin drove Grandma to the craft store where she asked for the softest yarn in a pale pink. The fleece lining needed to be comfy and warm. She raised the fabric to her cheek. Finally, she found the softest one in a perfect hue of pink—just like the morning sunrise. Once back in her small apartment, her gnarled hands worked the knitting needles as nimbly as always—despite her fading eyesight.

As Kevin prepared to leave, he paused to watch his grandma. How many blankets had she given away to the homeless shelter?  And each year she made one especially for Christmas. He recalled all the stories about whom she imagined would receive the special treasure. The Christmas Blanket had become his tradition too.





“Who is this blanket for, Grandma?”

“Oh, this one has to be just right. I think she’s terribly lonely for one so young. I thought the color might cheer her up. I hope she’ll feel my love.” 

He wondered about the girl who'd be wrapped in the sunrise-colored blanket.





….ten years later just before Christmas



Kevin held the apartment entryway door open for a young woman carrying a large box.

“Moving in?” he asked.

“Yes, and of course I choose the coldest time of year!” her blue eyes sparkled as she smiled.

“Here, let me carry this one up the stairs,” he offered, not wanting to lose sight of the beautiful girl.

At the top of the landing, she found her keys and unlocked her door. Setting the box down in the entryway, he noticed something familiar on the couch—a pink blanket—just the shade of the morning sunrise.

“That blanket…”

“Oh yes, that’s always the first thing I pack. I got it years ago on Christmas when I was really struggling. I remember wrapping it around myself and dreaming about the day I would have my own place on Christmas. The blanket gave me hope—and it still does."

And that’s how a young man finally heard the rest of one of Grandma’s stories. Only this time, the story was just beginning—since stories Made with Love never really end.




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