Held in Her Bosom, Stitched into Her Heart
For the Ones Who’ve Always Belonged, Even When They Were Told Otherwise—A Reflection on Jesus, Donkeys, Divine Mama Hips, and the Glory of Showing Up
⚠️ Content note: includes strong language around queer liberation and spiritual expression.
There’s been a little more joy in my life lately.
Not that grief is gone completely—it still pops up now and then, like a scrap of fabric that worked its way into the wrong pile. But it’s not weighing me down the way it used to. These days, joy is beginning to take up more space. I’ve been spending more time with members of my local quilt guild—after a year of membership and lingering on the edges, I finally started showing up, leaning in, saying yes to more conversations, more shared laughter, more community. And I’ve found myself surrounded by these brilliant, funny, talented makers who get it. People who know the rhythm of stitching something slowly and watching it come to life. People who understand the joy of finishing a thing, and the deep sigh of finally calling something done.
That joy feels sacred. Like something opening.
There’s been a quiet unfolding happening in my heart too. I’ve been doing a lot of work with my therapist around grief and healing—sitting with the pain honestly, honoring what it taught me, and beginning to loosen its hold. And slowly, I’m opening up to the possibility of love again. Not in a rushed or performative way, but in a real way—a way that feels like freedom. Like fresh air. Like lifting something that’s been shut for too long and letting the light in.
And lately, I’ve been clearing space. Not just emotionally, but physically—making room to actually finish the quilts I’ve started. When it comes time to baste the layers together—the quilt top, the batting, the backing—you need a wide-open space. My studio’s too small for that, so I end up pushing furniture to the sides or dragging the whole project to an empty room at the church where I can lay everything flat and get to work. The layers don’t join themselves. You have to be intentional. You have to clear the floor and make room. There’s something sacred about that. About creating space for what’s becoming.
The same is true for curating the upcoming quilt show. I’ve seen every quilt that will hang in that space—every color, every corner, every story sewn into fabric. I’ve designed the layout, imagined how the pieces will speak to each other, how the room will hold all these voices in fabric. There’s a kind of choreography to it, like arranging a liturgy. It’s not random. It’s careful. Thoughtful. Every piece belongs. Every stitch matters.
I keep hearing the echo of Psalm 24 in all of this: “Mighty gates: lift up your heads! Ancient doors: rise up high! So the glorious king can enter!” There’s something deeply moving about that call to open. To lift up. To create room for holiness to enter—not in some abstract, far-off way, but here. In the midst of your living. In the middle of your making.
That’s what Palm Sunday is about, too. When I think of Jesus entering Jerusalem, I can’t help but picture Aladdin. I was in fourth grade when it came out—the very first movie I ever saw in a theater. There’s that unforgettable scene where Aladdin enters the city in this huge, over-the-top parade. Elephants, camels, peacocks, music, color, grandeur—he’s trying so hard to be something he’s not. He’s putting on a show to prove he’s worthy of love.
And honestly? That hits close to home. So many of us queer folks know what it means to perform our way into acceptance, to wrap ourselves in layers of expectation and fear and longing, hoping we might finally be seen as enough. To be seen the way God sees us: perfectly and wonderfully made in God’s image.
But Jesus enters the city differently. Quietly. No peacocks, no fireworks. Just a borrowed donkey and a road lined with coats and palm branches. People take what they have—pieces of their lives, scraps of their garments—and lay them down like a path. It probably looked like a patchwork nature quilt, now that I think about it. Earthy and sacred, a tapestry of welcome that didn’t require perfection or performance. Just presence. Just love.
This is what makes Palm Sunday feel so subversive. It’s not a show of power, but a protest of peace. Jesus comes in not with spectacle, but with purpose. Not with illusion, but with integrity. He rides through a different gate, the opposite side of town from where the Roman officials were entering with their polished armor and polished lies. And the crowd, raw and real, lifts their voices and lifts their hope.
I wonder what it would look like to let our own gates lift like that.
People have told me that I’m not always easy to read. That even when I share, it can feel like there’s another layer underneath that I haven’t quite let out. And honestly, they’re [probably] right. Vulnerability is hard. It’s risky to open up—to share your real story, to hand someone a piece of your truth and hope they won’t use it to hurt you. To believe that you’ll still be loved once your layers are revealed.
But I’m learning. Slowly. That love—real, deep, freeing love—only walks through doors we choose to open.
What if your body, your spirit, your whole tender, fierce, beautifully queer self is the gate?
What if lifting up the gates means giving yourself the freedom to be fully you?
To serve c*nt without apology.
To claim your belovedness without performance.
To stop holding back the parts of yourself that sparkle too brightly for some people’s taste.
What if the gate doesn’t open to let God in, but to let you out?
For me, lifting the gates means freedom. It means not shrinking myself to make others comfortable. It means stepping into the fullness of who I am—fabulous, faithful, queer as all get-out—and not caring how that lands with anyone who can’t see the image of God stitched into this body. The truth is: everything and everyone belongs to God. Psalm 24 begins with that radical declaration—“the earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it.” Which means you. Which means me. Which means we were never outsiders to begin with. We’ve always been part of the pattern.
So, if the gate is you—your body, your spirit, your sacred self—then maybe lifting the gate means finally stepping into the light. Not hiding. Not apologizing. Not trying to be anyone else. Just…coming home.
And so, beloved, I leave you with this blessing:
May the God who made you—all of you—
hold you with kindness,
wrap you in the quilt of belonging,
and shine her light where it’s hardest to open.
May you serve c*nt without shame.
May you trust the gates will lift
when you are ready—
and may you know that Love
has been waiting on the other side,
with open arms and soft hips,
ready to draw you close,
wrap you in the quilt of her longing and light,
and press you into the warmth of her bosom,
where you have always belonged.
Amen.