On Buttons, Grandmas, and the Gentle Art of Being Held Together

by Angie Petrie

The Treasure Tin of Childhood. If you were to ask what has truly held me together over the years, I’d point not to towering philosophies or bestselling self-help books, but to a battered button tin; a rainbow trove of memories nestled in my grandma’s sunlit lounge. 

As a child, I would lose entire afternoons with that box, sifting through its kaleidoscopic contents: iridescent pearls, caramel bakelite, oyster shell disks gleaming like tiny moons. Each button felt enchanted, a talisman plucked from the sleeve of time, its surface still warm from a hundred yesterdays. 

In that golden hour glow, I was a pirate sifting treasure, a shopkeeper arranging precious wares, a couturier weaving dreams with every click and clatter. Those afternoons weren’t simply play; they were the gentle, ever-present heartbeat of my childhood: where possibility sparkled every time the lid was lifted, and my grandma’s laughter twined through the air like ribbons of light. 

Loss and the Unravelling Thread

When my grandma passed, it seemed the thread holding my memories together had snapped. The quiet corners of the house felt colder, and the button tin, once so full of stories, seemed to echo with absence. 

I hid that tin in the attic with other treasures, the memories too hard to hold and unbearable to keep in sight. At the time, I didn't know that out of sight and out of mind didn't support my emotions. To start the healing, mine needed to be felt and let out, experienced and explored.

The Return of Colour: Meeting a Mentor

But life, in its mysterious generosity, had not finished embroidering my narrative. Years later, a new button box entered my life, this time in the company of Jennifer Rees Larcombe, a woman with a garden’s warmth in her smile and a wisdom bright as spring crocuses. 

Jen wasn’t merely a mentor; with her gentle presence, she became, in a way, a grandmother returned, ready to help me mend what had come undone. Unknowingly, I allowed her in where others were not trusted. Gradually, I let her gentle spirit connect with mine; only God knows how that healing began and how it will continue.

The Quiet Liturgy of Sorting

Jen understood the secret language of buttons: how they fasten more than fabrics, how they can secure prayers, stories, and even broken hearts. Together, we’d sit with the button box between us, sunlight spilling across the table, and sort its vivid contents: emerald greens, cherry reds, mother-of-pearl, and buttons the tawny gold of autumn leaves. 

Each one became a token: a small moment to pause, confess a worry, offer gratitude, or simply cradle unspoken sadness in the palm of my hand. One button for courage, one for forgiveness, one for the hope that glimmers just beneath the surface. The simple act of sorting became a gentle liturgy; a quiet, holy ritual where ordinary things anchored us in the present moment. 

Stitching Together the Heart’s Fabric

What I realised, with each button’s click and each shared story, was that Jen wasn’t just teaching me how to pray or find solutions. She was stitching me back together, gently, patiently, with the steadiness of someone who knows that healing blooms in the softest corners of life, a tin of buttons, a cup of tea, a listening ear. 

I now hold her collection of buttons and offer them to individuals seeking a space to be heard. As others let the buttons fall through their hands or select one to carry with them for comfort until our next meeting, I am reminded of Jen’s legacy. I envision her looking down with a gentle smile as I share the treasured buttons she collected throughout a lifetime devoted to supporting others.

The Blessings We Find in Small Things

So if you ever feel yourself coming undone, why not try a rummage through a box of buttons? Among the dazzling hues and shapes, you may find what you need to mend a coat or a memory. 

More importantly, you might find a patch of peace, stitched from love, remembrance, and the gentle wisdom of grandmothers, those we’ve lost, and those we’re lucky enough to find again. 

Sometimes, the brightest blessings are the smallest, waiting quietly to hold us together, one colourful stitch at a time.

^Jennifer Rees Larcombe and her beloved chihuahua, Noah.