Patched together, neatly stitched, some old, some new. All coming together to make beauty. Birthed from perfection, planned, ordered specifically to form this life.
But what if some of those patches were flawed to begin with? Those pieces pulled from the generation before, worn, torn? What if those pieces have lost their warmth, their loveliness, and have become threadbare? Must those continue to be a part of my quilted life? Must I, out of obligation or expectancy, leave these pieces to be carried, used, accepted?
Or, because of the sight and understanding granted by a gracious Designer, might I pull out, pluck from, mend, repair?
Work. Busy, steady hands and a discerning eye. A willingness for the needle to prick my finger and sometimes draw blood. This blood may stain my quilt and when I look back over my work, I will remember and mark the time spent in doing the difficult task. I might try to hide the blood stain but often it just makes the mark larger and the fabric discolored. The marker, the remembrance, the glory stolen from that day’s work. Instead I will leave the tear stains, the spots.
And as I go about the task, I move with knowledge gleaned from the quilters before me, who like me, are removing and mending their imperfections, one square at a time. And they share their wisdom, their books, their passages of teaching and healing. They bind my bloodied fingers and help me stitch this life back together when the pain of holding the needle hinders my work. Lovingly they remind me of the Designer, of the greater design, the beauty still present in the flaws, the small holes, the seams unravelled, the time-worn colors still vibrant in the light.
Because when the cold winds blow through me, the blanket is all I have. And if I neglected my work, the daily labor of thoughtfully tending my patches with discipline and diligence throughout the warmer, sunlit seasons, my comfort will be taken. My children will be left to the winter’s chill. There will be no overflow of warmth to share, no color to brighten the gray and white, no softness to soothe. Nothing to give.
I add a patch. A small piece from a baby girl’s dress. Pink, perfect. A friendship adds a patch. A prayer stitches, mends from miles away. A marriage, a birth, an illness, a healing. Patches. Stitches. A mother. A Father. Son. Husband. A sorrow. Secrets shared behind sunglasses to hide the tears. A sister. A friend. A soul-talk over coffee. Patches. Stitches. Patches. Stitches.
I have been redeemed. Each patch, each stitch, a sign of my sanctification. Each stain evidence of life lived.
My quilt is beautiful and my hands are fruitful. My work is not finished and my quilt is ever incomplete. But it’s redeemed and grace will bind the broken until… And I walk towards the inevitable Winters to come, prepared, praying my quilted life will bring glory the Creator.