Stitched in the Valley

Finding hope, presence, and grace in the darkest places

For the Fifth Sunday in Lent, I offered this sermon to my congregation—stitched together with scripture, reflection, and the language of quilting. It’s about presence in the darkest valleys, and the quiet, persistent hope that holds us together.

Before I dive in, I want to share that as part of my doctoral work, I’ve been doing an independent study on the theology of creativity and making. It’s been a deeply personal and transformative project that’s helped me explore how making things with our hands can connect us to the sacred. For me, that practice is quilting. The act of piecing together fabric, stitching through layers, and creating something whole from scraps has become a spiritual metaphor for how I understand God’s presence and work in our lives.

More recently, I’ve noticed that these quilting images have started showing up throughout so much of my writing—not just in sermons, but in prayers, reflections, curriculum writing, and everyday thoughts about faith. They help me express things I can’t always say otherwise.

So today, those quilting images will be the thread that’s woven throughout this sermon (yes, pun intended), because I believe that making things—especially making them with love—can teach us something holy about God, about each other, and about what it means to live with hope in hard times.

The very first time I ever preached on this scripture was five years ago. It was the first Sunday after the world shut down because of COVID...I remember sitting in front of a camera on Zoom instead of standing before a congregation, not knowing what was ahead, and holding onto Psalm 23 like a lifeline. It was the comfort we all needed—a steady voice in a world that suddenly felt strange and scary. In that moment, we needed something familiar, something that felt like home, like the soft folds of a well-loved quilt. And Psalm 23 was that for so many of us.

And yet, even in its deep familiarity, I believe there is always something new to be found in this text. Like a quilt you think you know by heart, and then one day you notice a patch you'd never really seen before—a pop of color, a crooked stitch, a hidden detail that somehow makes the whole thing more beautiful. And maybe that’s the invitation today—to look again at something we thought we already knew by heart and discover something new, something sacred stitched right into the seams. And just like a quilt that tells a story with every piece of fabric, every thread, every choice of color or pattern, this psalm invites us to listen again—to trace our fingers over its worn and familiar words and notice what they’re saying to us now, in this season, in this moment.

There are some words that live in us.

Not just ones we memorize—like a phone number or a password—but words that take root, that grow with us, that show up when we need them. Words like: "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want."

I bet most of us could recite part, if not all, of Psalm 23 without even looking it up. Some of us learned it as children. Some of us have heard it at nearly every funeral we've attended. These are familiar words. But sometimes, the most familiar things can become invisible. Like a well loved quilt on the couch or folded at the end of a bed—something you stop noticing until one day, you really see it again.

Psalm 23 is like that.

It sits quietly in our memory, in our collective spirit, waiting for us to notice it again. And maybe today—in this season of Lent, in a world that feels uncertain and shadowed—we need to notice it again. To really hear it. To listen, not just with our minds, but with our weary, hopeful hearts.

"Even when I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no danger because you are with me."

That’s the way the Common English Bible translates it: the darkest valley. And scholars say it’s a closer match to the original Hebrew—less about literal death, and more about the deepest, most shadowed places in our lives.

Because whether it's grief over someone we loved and lost, fear for the state of the world, uncertainty about the future, or just the heaviness of getting through a hard day—we’ve all walked through those dark valleys.

We've all been in valleys.

And the psalm doesn't say if I walk through the darkest valley. It says even when. It's not a question of whether we will encounter suffering, fear, or loss. It's a given. What matters, the psalm says, is this: you are with me.

God is not on the other side of the valley, waving us through. God is not up above the valley, shouting directions from a safe distance. God is with us.

In the valley. In the shadow. In the mess and the fear and the grief and the pain.

God is with us.

But what about when it doesn’t feel that way?

What about when the valley is so dark, so long, that it’s hard to believe anyone—even God—is walking with us?

If you've ever felt that way, you’re not alone. I have too. Most of us have. There are times when God feels absent. Silent. When the prayers go unanswered. When the grief is too heavy. When we’re holding the fabric of our lives and it’s just threadbare in places—worn out from sorrow, torn by disappointment.

In quilting, sometimes there’s a stretch of fabric that looks strong but starts to fray under pressure. And yet, we don't throw the quilt away. We reinforce it. We patch it. We stitch through it again. And sometimes we invite someone else—a friend with a steadier hand or a stronger machine—to help carry the weight.

That, too, is the work of God. Sometimes God doesn’t feel present in the moment, but shows up in the people who hold us together when we can’t hold ourselves. In the gentle voice that checks in. In the meal left at the door. In the friend who sits beside you in silence.

God is in the middle of it, like a hand guiding fabric beneath a sewing needle—gently, carefully, stitching us back together when we feel like we’re unraveling. God moves through the layers—our joy, our pain, our hope, our doubt—and holds it all together.

And maybe that’s why this psalm gets read at funerals so often. Not just because it talks about death, but because it insists that even death isn’t enough to separate us from the love and presence of God. It says: even here. Even now. You are not alone.

That’s hope. Not shiny, Pinterest-perfect hope. But gritty, small, glimmering hope. The kind you clutch when everything else is falling apart. The kind Mr. Rogers might describe as the helpers—the signs that goodness is still real. Still possible.

"You prepare a table for me... my cup overflows."

One of the most radical things about this psalm is that it moves from the valley to a banquet.

God doesn’t just get us through the hard stuff. God feeds us. Nourishes us. Anoints us. Pours love and blessing into us so fully that our cups overflow.

Not because life is easy. Not because grief disappears. But because love remains.

It's like those moments in quilting when the pieces finally come together—when the pattern emerges and you step back and see something whole. Something more than just fabric and thread. God does that with us too. God doesn’t just patch us up; God creates something new and meaningful out of the pieces.

And sometimes, adding a patch on top to repair something makes it better. True, it might not match. It might stand out or look a little odd. But isn't that what adds character? Isn't that what gives the quilt its story, its soul? That little patch—unexpected and imperfect—allows the quilt to keep being used, to keep offering warmth and beauty. In the same way, the places in us that have needed mending, that show wear, that have been lovingly repaired—those are part of our story. Those are part of what makes us whole.

And maybe that’s part of what Lent is about. It’s not a season that pretends life is always joyful or perfect. It’s a season that makes room for sorrow, for self-examination, for stillness. But it also insists that something new is coming. It whispers that resurrection is possible. That hope is still growing, even when it seems hidden beneath the soil—or beneath a pile of scraps waiting to be turned into something beautiful.

So maybe today, Psalm 23 invites us to notice the ways God is showing up with us. Not only on the mountaintops, but in the valleys. Not only when everything feels fine, but when everything is a little bit broken.

Maybe hope looks like:

· The friend who texts you just when you needed it.

· The moment you take a deep breath and feel your feet on the ground.

· The hymn that makes your eyes well up with tears.

· The neighbor who checks in.

· The child who giggles in the pew.

· The memory of someone you love who still lingers in your heart.

· Or the quilt wrapped around your shoulders, handmade with care, reminding you that you are held.

Maybe hope looks like this community—gathered together, singing, praying, showing up. Week after week. Even when life is hard. Even when we’re tired. Even when we’re not sure what comes next.

"Surely goodness and faithful love will pursue me all the days of my life."

I love that word: pursue. Some translations say "follow," but the Hebrew word here is more active. It means to chase after, to hunt down.

This isn't a gentle trailing behind. This is God’s love on a mission.

Imagine that. God's goodness and mercy chasing us down—not just when we’re doing great, not just when we're showing up to church, not just when we're having a good day—but every day. All the days of our life. Even the ones when we can barely get out of bed. Even the ones filled with doubt. Even the ones where we feel unworthy, unlovable, or just plain lost.

God doesn’t give up. God doesn’t wander off. God is in pursuit.

Which means we don’t have to go looking for hope as if it’s hiding from us. Hope is looking for us.

And here’s where the quilting metaphor really comes in for me. It’s like when I piece together a quilt—taking scraps, leftovers, mismatched fragments, and slowly stitching them into something beautiful, something warm, something whole. Sometimes I quilt it myself on my domestic machine, and other times, I send it to a friend who has a long-arm quilting machine—a massive machine that can handle it all, stitching intricate patterns with grace and ease.

That’s what God’s pursuit feels like to me.

We might feel like scraps. Leftover. Torn. Not enough. But God keeps stitching. God gathers the pieces. Threads through every layer—the broken ones, the tired ones, the bright spots and the frayed edges. And God doesn’t stop until the whole thing holds together.

That might be a whole new idea for some of us—especially in a world where so much feels conditional. Where love sometimes feels like it has to be earned. Where we’re told that we have to strive and achieve and prove our worth.

But Psalm 23 flips all that. It says: you are already beloved. Already seen. Already pursued. Not by fear, not by shame, not by expectation—but by goodness and faithful love.

That’s the promise.

You are not forgotten. You are not abandoned. You are not alone.

Even here. Even now.

And so, friends, may we walk this Lenten road with courage. May we trust that even in the shadowed valleys, we are not alone. And may we keep our hearts open to the glimmers of hope that are already all around us— in the still waters, in the overflowing cups, and in the gentle presence of the One who is, always, stitching us together in love.

A Blessing for the Frayed and the Faithful:
Friends, as you go from this place,
may you know deep in your bones that you are not alone.
Even in the shadowy places, even in the mess—
God is with you, stitching you together with grace.

May you feel love like a quilt wrapped around your shoulders—
imperfect, maybe, patched together in places,
but full of story, full of care, full of warmth.

May goodness and faithful love keep pursuing you—
in texts from friends, in laughter, in stillness,
in all the little things that help you keep going.

And as you go,
may you carry hope like thread—
sometimes thin, sometimes tangled,
but always strong enough to hold.

Go in peace. Go with tenderness. Go knowing you are held.

Amen.