Lent always calls us into the wilderness, into the unknown, into a space of reflection and trust. And yet, even in the wilderness, there is refuge. Psalm 91 speaks of God as our shelter, our fortress, the One who covers us under strong and loving wings. It’s a psalm of protection, of trust, of knowing that—even when life unravels—there is a thread holding us together.
And Lord, do I know what it feels like to unravel.
Quilting has always felt like refuge to me. I didn’t come to it casually, like, Oh, this looks fun! Let me make a cute little blanket! No, I found quilting because I was drowning in depression. I was in a place where I couldn’t see a way forward, where even getting out of bed felt impossible some days. The world felt too loud, too overwhelming, too much. I needed something—anything—that could ground me, something to tether me to the present when my mind kept spiraling into the dark.
Enter quilting.
There was something about the process—the precision of cutting, the rhythm of stitching, the way small, fragmented pieces could come together into something whole—that saved me. When my world felt chaotic, quilting gave me control. When I felt numb, fabric gave me texture, color, and warmth. When I didn’t know how to pray, the simple act of sewing—one stitch after another—became my prayer. And let’s be honest, sometimes my prayers sounded less like Holy and merciful God and more like Lord, if I have to rip out one more seam, I am going to lose what’s left of my mind.
But that’s the thing about quilting—it teaches you patience. It reminds you that even when things don’t go as planned, you can always pick up the pieces and try again. And isn’t that just like God? Always picking up our pieces, always stitching us back together, always saying, I’m not done with you yet.
Quilting became my safe place. It wasn’t just about making something beautiful. It was about survival. It was about creating a space where I could breathe, where I could be, where I could work through the mess of life and still end up with something that held together (even if some seams were a little crooked).
There’s a reason we wrap babies in quilts, drape them over couches in well-loved spaces, and pass them down through generations. A quilt says, You are held. You are protected. You are not alone.
And isn’t that exactly what God does for us?
Maybe that’s why this psalm speaks to me so deeply at the start of Lent. When life feels uncertain—when I am walking through my own wilderness—God is my refuge, my safe place. And while I don’t always feel that truth in the moment, I can trace the stitches of my life and see where love has held me before.
This season, I’m asking myself: Where do I find refuge? Where do I experience God’s shelter? Sometimes it’s in the quiet moments of prayer, sometimes in the steady hum of my sewing machine, sometimes in the presence of a friend who listens without judgment. And sometimes—let’s be real—it’s in curling up with a quilt, a cup of tea (or something much stronger), and a book, because God also works through good fabric and good stories.
And maybe, just maybe, the work of Lent is to rest in that shelter while also becoming it—to be a refuge for others, to stitch love into the fabric of the world, to remind those who are weary that they, too, are held.
Because at the end of the day, God is in the quilting business—piecing us together, mending what’s been torn, and wrapping us in love that is soft, strong, and stitched with grace.
A Quilter’s Benediction
May you find refuge in every stitch,
Grace in every seam,
And the steady hand of Love piecing you back together
when life feels torn.
May the One who shelters, mends, and holds us
wrap you in warmth,
cover you in mercy,
and send you forth to be a refuge for others.
Go in peace, wrapped in love.
Amen. 🧵💜
Yes that's what pain does for.me. you definitely have a talent such beautiful work you create