Rest and Release

So let’s not get tired of doing what is good. At just the right time we will reap a harvest of blessing if we don’t give up.  – Galatians 6:9 (NLT)

I was very anxious to get back to quilting, but the doctor’s orders kept me in bed. The business kept growing, which was wonderful, yet at the same time we knew things couldn’t continue as they were. We were adding more and more workers and our home was overrun. I didn’t want them to go, but we were running out of space and needed some privacy. It seemed as if an entire village had moved into our house. If sustained indefinitely, this level of activity would begin affecting our family life, and it would also stifle the growth of the business. We needed to find ways to release and diversify the vision for greater growth. We prayed about it and asked God for wisdom.

Around this time my mother paid us a visit. Dad and Mom’s work with Pioneers had expanded rapidly. The organization now had workers in more than 40 countries. God had richly rewarded my parents’ step of faith when they left the business world to use their gifts in world missions.

Mom got right into our quilting enterprise. The quilters loved her because she was kind and had grey hair, which identified her as wise and worthy of respect. She used hand motions to communicate the best she could or spoke English loudly and slowly, thinking that might help the workers understand her better. Mom helped me with colors and new quilt ideas. She too was sensing that, although the activity within our home was exciting, it was also exhausting, and I needed to pace myself. Shortly before she returned to the U.S., she decided that, instead of buying souvenirs to take home, she would give me money to purchase another sewing machine. She knew the eternal significance of what God was doing and adding another machine—and thus another quilter—brought joy to her heart.

But that wasn’t all. When Mom went home, she began telling others about the amazing things that were happening through the quilting program. One of the people Mom talked to had a heart for the poor. To our great encouragement, she sent us a check for $3,000 specifically so that we could rent a separate house for the business. I was grateful for the gift, and so was Steve! He went out right away and found a large house just two blocks down the road. With $3,000 he was able to sign a three-year contract. What a provision! I was so excited. Steve, Dewi and the quilters wasted no time moving all the equipment and supplies out of our house and into the new location.

I could hardly wait to see the new operation, but the doctor’s orders were clear. I still wasn’t completely well, and he wanted me to rest. For a few weeks after the move I stayed in bed as instructed, but then I couldn’t stand it any longer. I missed the quilters. I had to take care of some things over at the rented house, so I walked over and spent a few hours with the workers. It was fun to be with them, and I realized again how much I enjoyed all the people and the hurricane of progress. After some tea and lots of laughter with Dewi and the quilters, I walked home somewhat reassured that they had everything under control.

With the move to the new house, we decided it was time to give the business a name: HeartCraft. It seemed an apt description for a project that was touching so many lives and hearts in practical ways. We were excited to have more space. In fact, we even had an upstairs above the main quilting center with a couple of guestrooms. Steve and I had more visitors than we knew what to do with! Thankfully, we were able to house some of them at HeartCraft. That way the guests could also get a good dose of Kantoli culture, language and food.

Some of the quilters had never interacted with a foreigner before, so it was a new experience for everyone. Dewi went out of her way to serve the guests by bringing them a bucket of hot water for their showers each morning. One visitor, Mr. Anthony, was a rather portly man who came on a team with a pastor for the purpose of leading worship times. He was an excellent pianist and singer. What we did not realize was that he had a toupee, which he kept on his head when he was out in public and removed when he was alone in his room.

One morning, Dewi and a couple of the ladies went up to deliver hot water to Mr. Anthony. When he opened the door, he looked normal. They greeted him, handed over the bucket of steaming water and left. Suddenly Dewi realized she had forgotten something and knocked on the door again, only to find that Mr. Anthony now had no hair on his head. In her shock she let out a shriek of surprise, much to Mr. Anthony’s embarrassment. Dewi later said to me, “I had no idea that American men can take their hair on and off whenever they want to.” For days, that event was a main topic of conversation among the quilters. Mr. Anthony never knew just how famous he became among the quilters of Indonesia!

Because I was in bed with hepatitis and wasn’t there to make day-to-day decisions, the workers had more independence. They were delighted to take matters into their own hands. I was learning that running a business in an Asian country is completely different from doing it in the U.S. For example, the Kantoli people are so polite that sometimes I couldn’t tell what they were really thinking or feeling. For one thing, they never wanted to give me bad news or admit they didn’t know how to do something. Sometimes they would rather ruin a huge quilt by doing it wrong than ask me for help. They might get embarrassed, or malu. Malu involves loss of face, and the desire to avoid feeling malu is a powerful motivator in Kantoli culture. It’s difficult for a Westerner to understand, but for a Kantoli, malu is the worst thing that can happen to you.

In a business setting in America, I could be direct and just say what was needed, but in Indonesia, that was the worst thing for me to do. I had to be very careful not to offend these dear people by sharing correction or suggestions too directly. Sometimes it would take an hour to explain what needed to be done. Instead of saying, even in a nice tone of voice, “You did this wrong,” I had to say, “Maybe we can try a different way.” It felt like walking on eggshells as I tried not to offend people.

At one point the workers realized they were running low on cloth, and they headed downtown to buy more. Dewi was all for the excursion. She had been shopping with me many times, so she figured she would spare me the pressure of thinking that I had to choose all the materials when she could now do it herself.

I knew Dewi wanted to show me she was able to lead in my absence. I had no other option because I was sick in bed, and her reasoning sounded good—until the workers came back and showed me what they bought. The fabric was bright green with little purple fish splashed all over it. The complementary fabric was bright orange with blue fish. Not only were the colors absolutely garish, but the cloth itself was not at all the quality that we needed.

When I saw the fish fabric, I almost fainted. And they didn’t buy just a few meters, either. They had a huge roll! Our hard-earned money had been spent on fish cloth. In Indonesia you can’t return things like you can in the U.S. I felt sick inside. Trying not to show my disappointment, I asked, “Why did you choose this fabric?”

“It was on sale.”

“But what do you think we should do with it?” I went on, as gently as I could.

“Make quilts, of course! Don’t you like fish?”

“Not everyone likes fish, and it will take a long time to use these huge rolls of fabric,” I explained, trying to appear calm and collected.

All I got were blank stares. No one seemed concerned. Then Ayung spoke up with a smile, “People here love fish. We eat fish from our ponds all the time! And look at these bright and cheerful colors!”

I could tell I wasn’t getting anywhere. We were on a limited budget. How would we sell hundreds of fish quilts? I dreaded the thought of trying to market them to customers with a Western sense of style. “Well, it’s going to be a miracle if any of the fish quilts sell,” I finally replied.

To accelerate the usage of the fish fabric we began to put it in all kinds of products—from potholders to purses. Virtually every item had fish on it. I even had dreams about fish. It turned out that the quilters were right. Someone whose sons loved fishing would buy a few quilts. Another person who loved to eat fish would grab one. Still others who simply liked fish would buy a quilt. Was I the only one who had a problem with the purple fish quilts? I guess I was. It took a year, but every single one of the fish quilts eventually sold. I learned that if God could multiply the fish and bread to feed 5,000 people, then He could certainly make fish quilts sell. He is a God of miracles, and He demonstrated it to me right in front of the quilters. It was a strong reminder that ultimately this project belonged to God, and He was able to take care of it. My job was to be faithful. The Lord also wanted me to have a few laughs along the way.

All the mistakes were not so easily rectified, however. While I was still sick in bed, a woman from New Zealand came to the quilters with two big bags of cloth. She had always wanted to make a quilt for her daughter, who was now getting married, but she never had the time. Then she heard of HeartCraft. One of the bags she brought us contained a priceless treasure of memories from her daughter’s life—delicate baby clothes, tiny dresses with adorable prints, youthful skirts and blouses. These were all items her daughter had worn when she was small, and the proud mother wanted us to make them into a quilt as a wedding gift.

It was a wonderful idea! The only problem was that our workers did not clearly understand what she was requesting. Being Kantoli, they couldn’t lose face by saying “No.” So they said “Yes.” I was too sick to help them figure it out, so I just let them make their own decisions.

They enthusiastically accepted the bag with the precious baby clothes in it and nodded politely to confirm they understood the mother’s instructions. She was delighted, so she also gave the workers a second bag of scrap cloth unrelated to the first one. It was worthless cloth that she just wanted to donate to the quilters who were in training to help them practice. They were ugly scraps—some of the cloth had red elephants on it—but it was perfect for training new workers. The staff thanked her and assured her that they would use it.

Dewi was a good leader, but by this time she had too much to do. She was learning what it was like to lead in my absence and to juggle finances, sales, wages, special orders and regular production—not to mention overseeing the cooks who made lunch for everyone and the team that washed the quilts that had stains.

You can guess what happened. Somehow fabric from the two bags got mixed together. The sweet little adorable dresses were cut up and mixed with the ugly scraps from the donated bag. The result was a beautifully stitched wedding ring quilt using a horrible mixture of fabrics. It was embarrassing. I was too sick to cry and too weak to protest. Why couldn’t the workers instinctively know that a red elephant should not appear in a wedding-ring quilt? Why could they not recognize that soft delicate colors should not mix with loud bright colors? To make matters worse, some of the little girl prints were starting to appear in the beginner’s potholders. And some of the bright scraps were appearing in other large quilts. It was a mess, and there was no way to retrieve the cloth and start over.

I wondered what I might do to apologize to this sweet woman from New Zealand. I agonized over the reaction she might have. I felt that saying it was a mistake was not enough. We were making too many mistakes. This one hurt. It was sentimental fabric that she had collected and saved for years, and we had totally botched the project. When the lady came back for her quilt, she was shocked. The expression on her face was like something out of a movie, but she composed herself and was surprisingly forgiving. I ended up giving her the horrible, well-made wedding quilt with the wrong colors. Maybe she eventually had a good laugh about it. Or maybe not. I also let her have any other quilt she wanted for free. In the end, she was all right, and I don’t think we lost a customer.

To avoid repeating those kinds of mistakes, Dewi and I started to tape big notes on every special order. We were putting a lot of time and money into each quilt, so I felt it was worth the effort to ensure a quality outcome. We even made pictures of what the finished quilt should look like. We talked about each special order and made things as clear as humanly possible. Still, it was not easy to communicate every detail. Sometimes I wondered, Were they ignoring me, or was I not making sense? Often, when I wanted a piece of cloth cut vertically with the design, they would cut it horizontally. It was funny at times, but then it got really frustrating. If I softly corrected someone about their quality, I might not see them for days because they were malu. It was a constant challenge to improve the quality without losing my quilters, who had become my friends as well.

Eventually, I began to recover from the hepatitis and returned to the doctor’s office, hoping for a good report. He took a blood sample and asked if I was behaving myself.

“Absolutely!” I replied, “I feel much better.” I was hoping he would let me resume normal activities.

“Not so!” he said. “I saw you! You were not being good and staying in bed. In fact, the other day when I was on my way to work, I saw you walking down the road.”

He caught me! Not only did the doctor scold me for disobeying his orders, but he ordered me to have even more rest. Didn’t he know I had things to do? Quilting can’t just stop! I wondered if I should give him a free fish quilt to pacify him. The doctor said it would take time to heal. Patience is not my greatest quality, but he insisted that I discipline myself and rest a few more weeks.