Part 8: Crocheted Capes and the Grace That Held Me Together
“He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.”
—Psalm 91:4 (NIV)
Looking back on my early elementary years—from kindergarten through third grade—I realize how much of it is a blur. Not just the classes, but the people, routines, and entire seasons of life feel hazy. I don’t remember much of what I learned or even how I felt. What I do remember is numbness. A fog that covered most of my day-to-day reality.
At the time, I didn’t have language for it. Now I can see that the symptoms of PTSD were already beginning to take shape. Repeated medical trauma and emotional overwhelm had trained my body to stay on alert. Survival came first. Memory came second.
By third grade, I was beginning to notice more clearly that people were not always kind—but I had already learned to accept that as part of my existence.
There was a neighbor girl a little older than me. Our mothers were friends, so I would go over to her house to play. Each time I walked through their front door, her mother would casually reach for a can of Lysol and spray behind me as I entered. I wasn’t allowed to sit on her daughter’s bed. No one explained it. It was simply understood.
And I accepted it.
After all, I wore diapers. In my childlike reasoning, it must have made sense. I must smell. I must be a risk. I must be capable of soiling something. I don’t remember ever having an accident there, but that didn’t seem to matter. The possibility alone was enough.
What strikes me now is not outrage. It’s how quickly I internalized the message. I didn’t protest. I didn’t feel anger. I adjusted. I kept going over there.
But something in me absorbed it: You are a problem to be managed. You require caution. You are different.
Children rarely evaluate exclusion; we personalize it. If something feels uncomfortable or humiliating, we assume it must be logical. It must be us. And so the shame tucked itself quietly into my developing identity.
Around that same time, the friend who began to bring light into my world told me something that stayed with me. She said her mother wasn’t sure whether it was wise to invite me to her birthday party because I was “different.”
Her mother didn’t really know me. I don’t think she meant it personally. But when my friend repeated it to me, it felt deeply personal.
This time, I remember something new rising in me. Sadness, yes. But also anger. Not loud anger. Not rebellion. Just a quiet awareness that it wasn’t fair. An anger created by exclusion.
I did go to the party. My friend stood up for me. She insisted I be invited.
I don’t remember the cake.
I don’t remember the games.
I don’t remember who else was there.
I only remember that I got to go.
And that someone chose me.
That mattered more than anything else at the party.
My mom would likely say she was my best friend growing up. And in many ways, she was. She was present. She showed up. She advocated for me medically. She carried burdens most people will never understand.
But presence and emotional freedom are not always the same thing.
My mother loved me—I know that now with adult clarity. Yet love, when mixed with fear, responsibility, and generational expectations, can sometimes feel heavy. There were often unspoken standards in our home. Be strong. Be good. Handle it well. Don’t make things harder than they already are.
I learned to color inside the lines very early.
My mom has always proudly told the story that at just 18 months old, I knew how to color inside the lines. I’ve thought about that often. What toddler even understands what a “line” is? And how did that become such a badge of honor?
It makes me smile now. But it also says something deeper. Whether perfectly accurate or slightly embellished, that story represents something important—an early desire to be admirable. To be easy. To be impressive. To be worthy of praise.
I may have colored inside the lines, but somewhere along the way, I began losing the freedom to scribble.
When trauma enters a child’s life repeatedly, identity doesn’t develop in simple, whole ways. It adapts.
I learned to disconnect when feelings overwhelmed me.
I learned to pretend I was okay so I wouldn’t be a burden.
I learned to daydream when reality felt too heavy.
I learned to perform—through art, behavior, achievement—so my pain stayed hidden.
Deep down, I carried a quiet belief that something about me was flawed. Not enough. Too complicated. Too much. And so I tried to cover those perceived inadequacies. Half of me believed I was defective. The other half worked tirelessly to be admired and accepted.
And in the middle of all that, there was a light.
A quirky, hilarious, unconditional light.
My grandmother—Gram-cracker.
I gave her that nickname. I wrote it in cards and said it with a grin, stretching out the syllables like it was our inside joke. I don’t think anyone else in the family called her that. She was simply “Grandma” to them. But to me, she was Gram-cracker. And she always smiled when I said it.
With her, I didn’t feel measured. I didn’t feel observed for performance. I didn’t feel like I needed to be impressive or resilient. There were no silent standards to meet. No invisible bar to clear.
She simply enjoyed me.
That difference is hard to explain unless you’ve lived it. She had no expectations of who I needed to become. She wasn’t responsible for shaping me. She simply delighted in me.
With Gram-cracker, love felt light.
I wasn’t “different” under her roof. I was hers.
And in a childhood where I often felt managed or quietly evaluated, that freedom was oxygen.
She was everything soft and steady, funny and free. Always put together. Her outfits matched perfectly, her jewelry simple but sparkling just right. She carried a purse so organized you could have served lunch from it. An elegant sweater or wrap completed every look. Her hair, faithfully styled by my cosmetologist mother, never strayed from its signature shape. She looked the way safety felt—tidy, intentional, beautiful.
She let me play Christmas music all year long and do cartwheels down the narrow hallway of her single-wide trailer. After dinner, we’d take evening walks around her senior park. She would point out neighbors and share just enough harmless gossip with a wink and a grin. Those small rituals became a rhythm of calm. A sanctuary disguised as ordinary life.
She wasn’t a gourmet cook, but she was the best short-order chef I’ve ever known. Her pancakes had lace-crisp edges and soft, warm centers. We ate on TV trays while watching Lawrence Welk or Name That Tune. She always won. One note in, and she knew the song.
She crocheted like a machine—capes, blankets, tasseled hats in whatever colors I requested. If she spotted even the smallest flaw, she would unravel it and calmly say, “That’s what happens when you hurry.” I still hear those words when I rush through a project today. She could turn an old pillowcase into a doll dress before I even finished asking. Her hands created beauty out of scraps.
At night, we each had our own twin bed in her room. We would lie in the dark and talk until sleep quietly came. In that room, I felt completely safe. Completely loved. No performance required. Just presence.
When I think about those nights, I think of Psalm 91:4:
“He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge.”
That’s what she was to me. A living shelter. A safe wing to crawl beneath. Faithful. Steady. Fierce in her love.
And perhaps, in her own ordinary way, she reflected the protective heart of God—one crocheted cape, one lace-edged pancake, and one bedtime conversation at a time.
For years, I quietly absorbed the message that I was different. Yet even before I understood it, God had already placed a picture of refuge in my life.
Sometimes His protection doesn’t arrive as dramatic rescue. Sometimes it looks like a grandmother who delights in you. A safe room with twin beds. A love that carries no performance requirement.
Maybe you’ve felt the weight of being different. Maybe you’ve learned to adjust, to shrink, or to prove your worth so others feel comfortable.
But what if refuge feels lighter than that?
What if God’s covering looks less like evaluation and more like invitation?
Who in your life has reflected safety without expectation?
What messages about yourself did you quietly accept as truth?
And what would it look like to believe that you are chosen and cherished?
The devotional connected to this post reflects on what it means to rest under God’s covering instead of living under performance.