There Are Angels Among Us

Once upon a time, there was a woman named Maggie Gorishek who—like the children’s book character, Strega Nona—worked in her autumn years, churning and churning, tirelessly. The difference between Strega Nona and Maggie is that Strega Nona is a folktale, and Maggie is real. And Maggie’s magic does not involve a bottomless pasta pot but an old sewing machine, and my friend, Maggie, is one of my sheroes.

I met Maggie last year, in 2024, where I worked at an independent senior living center, and she was involved in the drama club, which I helped run. Maggie is an excellent actor with a knack for comedy, and she has a clear voice that she is good at projecting, a skill she honed from her 25 years as an elementary school teacher in Dallas, Texas. “Originally, I wanted to teach French. But you know how that goes,” she laughs. “Every high school has that one French teacher who digs in her heels and stays for 30 years! So, I taught science–to grades 2 through 5.”

In addition to teaching all those years and raising her family—a son and a daughter, Maggie always found time to sew and quilt, which is how she stumbled on her current passion project, making Angel Gowns from wedding dresses. Maggie was particularly drawn to this venture because it “fulfilled a need for families whose babies have gone on to be angels.” With her sewing, Maggie hopes to “comfort those who have lost their angels,” and to “bring dignity in death” so the grieving families do not have to “wrap their precious ones in a sheet or towel. I want to make a difference in the world and to do what I can, for as long as I can.” She goes on to share that a new friend, upon hearing about Maggie’s work with Angel Gowns, confided that she, too, had lost a premie, years ago, and she had to buy a christening gown for the burial.

(Not only is that tragically ironic, but also it is an unthinkable task after such a loss.)

            So, I gave my wedding dress to Maggie, and it was an honor to do so because I cannot think of a better second life for the dress. For my part, I personally connected to these families because I was told I would never have children and, at the time, that medical diagnosis was the deepest grief I had ever experienced. But, miraculously, I did get pregnant one (and only one) time, and that news—the greatest joy of my life—quickly spiraled into a “high risk” and life-threatening pregnancy journey. Long story short, I was bedridden for six weeks, hemorrhaged twice, and, eventually, went into early labor, where a neonatologist had to be helicoptered in to see how the baby was doing. “I am going to do an ultrasound,” he informed me, “and if the baby is viable—that is, at least, five pounds and isn’t in distress—then we can continue to monitor your labor. But, if not, we will have to do an emergency C-section.” Well, the baby registered in the scans at a mere 4 lbs. 9 ozs., and the faces of the medical team quietly said to me that my fear of a C-section was not the biggest concern. And I panicked! To think that I had been able to hold onto my dreams of being a mother, as fraught as my pregnancy had been, only to lose the child now was simply too large a thought for my heart to fathom.

            But, after spending some time in the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit), my premie survived. That is where my birth story diverges from those families who are the recipients of one of Maggie’s Angel Gowns and, as close as I got to the edge of that chasm, I know it is one of the deepest pits of grief there is for the human soul, and if my wedding dress can be repurposed into a tiny gift of love in an impossible place, then sign me up.

            “Why do we use wedding dresses?” Maggie muses, moving material underneath the 1954 Singer Featherweight she uses to sew, working as we talk, with hands and a mind that is never idle. “For so many reasons, really. Wedding dresses are dreamt about and bought for the happiest day of a woman’s life, as they say. There is a sacredness to them. And they’re also the most expensive dresses, made with the finest material in all their gloriousness: lace, pearls, jewels. And the yards of satin et cetera in the train can make so many angel gowns. Plus,” she pauses, looking up with glistening eyes, “those brides … become those mothers. These.” She holds up an Angel Gown. This one has a checkered, almost whimsical vest, a variation for families of a boy or parents who want something less ornate.

            “Is that little machine what you always use to make these big projects?” I ask.

            “Yes! And I have had them all, even digital ones with all the fancy computer stuff. But I came back to my Featherweight. It was made right after the depression. It is all metal but only weighs 11 lbs. I do have to oil it in all its 54 places,” she laughs, “but the only thing it doesn’t do is zigzag.” The machine is as central to the room as sewing is to Maggie’s retirement life, and her sewing projects are all neatly organized in areas around what most would call the living room. “I don’t watch TV. If anything, I might listen to it or have it on as background noise. Because I sew seven days a week, except for that time I got too energetic,” she chuckles, “and I got a muscle spasm.”

            For the last two years, Maggie has dedicated herself to crafting Angel Gowns. “It is almost a global project, I think. Just go on Pinterest or Etsy, and you will see all the patterns and things, pages and pages. When I first started the Angel Gowns, I took to it because I love to sew, and I knew they would turn out well. So that makes me proud of the job I have done. It is just part of my being to help others,” she almost apologizes. “And,” she pauses, “I am so grateful that I never needed one (of these) …”

            Now, Maggie is one of the most genuinely joyful people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Her eyes shine, and there is a peace just being in her presence. But Maggie is no stranger to grief: “I lost my daughter, son-in-law, and my 19-year-old grandson to a plane crash in 2013 in Amarillo, when a Blue Norther blew up. Yeah, God and I have had some words over that one.”

            So far this year, Maggie has made 32 Angel Gowns but, over the years, she has also sewn chemo-turbans (for women who have lost their hair from chemotherapy) at a rate of 400-600 a year (for 15 years and counting), and she made quilts for soldiers in a MASH unit in Iraq. “I made 2,000 quilts in total, I believe. I was averaging 6 quilts a month. We’re talking quilted, bound, labeled, everything.” On average, the chemo-turbans take her only 30-minutes to make, but the Angel Gowns are a process: “I’ve never really timed how long the gowns take. But the first thing I do is wash the wedding dresses in my washer. Then, I deconstruct them, sitting right here on this chair, stitch by stitch. It is time-consuming and it gets tedious, and it’s tougher at night, especially when the light is not cooperating. Then, I cut the patterns, and applique lace to the gown front, or I add a vest for boys. The gowns are all velcroed in the back. –And, if I take out the hems on the wedding dresses, that’s an extra 2 to 3 inches more material I can use!”

At almost 84-years-old, Maggie’s productivity is astounding—and exhausting to imagine. But when I ask if there are any drawbacks to doing this kind of work, a shadow crosses her face for a moment. “It is hard, sometimes. Like when you get a card from one of these soldiers. And it has a picture of the quilt you made across him, and he is attached to all this machinery. All these tubes—like the ones from Landstuhl Regional Medical Center (LRMC). It’s the largest military hospital in Germany, and it’s for the most-severely wounded. War is just the worst. Just like in Viet Nam.” Even her voice, now, darkens with the memory. “Why were we there?! And all these strapping, young men have lost their limbs and their lives.”

She gets up and goes to the kitchen, as a way to change the topic (or change the channel, I think). “And here at the old folks’ home, as I always teasingly call this place, everyone’s legs keep getting shorter and their pants get longer. And most people know I sew. So,” she laughs, “I’ve taken care of just about everyone here! But I don’t mind, and I needed something useful.” Then, she lifts a small package wrapped in tissue paper and hands it to me. “Now, that is for you. Because you are loved.”

I open the tissue paper to see an Angel Gown, so delicate, small, and beautifully made. “Maggie?” I somehow manage, my throat tight.

“It is from your wedding dress. I want you to have it. But you can give it away or keep it. I make four sizes from measurements they give you, and that is the second smallest size. I dropped the others off, already, at the hospital…”       

I cannot sew (and you don’t even want to see me try!). It is not my gift. But the way that Maggie lives her life has so inspired me that I feel compelled to “pass it on.” Maggie is a lightbearer and, maybe, in writing about her passion for others, I, in turn, can rekindle my candle and lift it higher to inspire others like you, dear reader, to find a way to help a hurting world. And the time is now because, unlike Maggie, I do watch TV, and every time I turn on the news, there is another disaster, as American culture and policies veer more and more towards cruelty over compassion, and greed over community, and all I want to do is to “tune out.” So, yeah. We can despair, individually, or we can collectively do something, anything: The goal is to Find Your Thing. I will leave you with these words from the Prayer of St. Francis because they capture both Maggie’s generous heart and how projects like the Angel Gowns give light in some of life’s dimmest places:

Make me a channel of your peace
Where there is despair in life, let me bring hope
Where there is darkness, only light
And where there is sadness, ever joy.
… For it is in giving that we receive …

View All Stories By Rita Anderson