Stitching with Questions

For the curious, the cautious, and the ones still wondering.

There’s a quilt top I recently finished that has two blocks sewn in the wrong direction. They’re not glaring—just a little off-kilter. Most people wouldn’t notice. In fact, when I point it out, they usually squint and say, “Oh… huh. I guess I kind of see it?” But I see it. I know it. I noticed it only after the whole thing was pieced together—after the pressing, the trimming, the satisfaction of stepping back and saying, “It’s done.” And now I’m torn. Do I pick it apart and fix it? Or do I leave it—mistake and all—and let it tell the truth about the process? I haven’t decided yet. But that tension—between leaving it alone and reworking it—feels a lot like faith to me. A thing we return to again and again, wondering if it still fits together the way we thought it did.

That’s how I’ve come to understand faith. Not as something perfectly pieced, but as something stitched together through trial, error, and a whole lot of wondering. Sometimes we pull the seams apart just to understand why they don’t fit. Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is ask another question.

And when I think about that kind of faith, I think about Thomas.

You know the one. The disciple who gets called “Doubting Thomas,” as if that nickname were a permanent name tag he couldn’t peel off. Never mind that Peter denied Jesus three times, or that most of the others fled when things got dangerous. But somehow, Thomas gets remembered for being the guy who said out loud what the rest were probably thinking: “Unless I see the wounds myself, I can’t believe.”

I don’t think Thomas doubted out of stubbornness. I think he was just practical. Honest. Maybe even a little wounded himself. Thomas wasn’t trying to make a scene. He just needed something real to hold onto. And who hasn’t been there?

When I started seminary, I brought a tightly-stitched understanding of God with me. Years of Evangelical and Fundamentalist teaching had given me a tidy belief system—everything pressed and pinned and labeled just so. But it didn’t take long for the questions to start pulling at the seams.

Wait, Moses didn’t write all five books of the Torah?
Isaiah might be multiple people across centuries?
Jonah is… allegory?

My theological quilt started to unravel. And I had a choice: panic and pretend it was still intact, or start re-stitching with curiosity. I chose the latter—though not without a few tears and late-night Google spirals.

In my second semester, I was assigned to write my own statement of faith. I thought it would be easy. After all, I’d grown up reciting beliefs like memory verses. But when I sat down to write it, I froze. What did I actually believe? Who was God, really?

When I started seminary, my image of God looked a lot like Carl Fredricksen from Up—a little gruff, a little distant, perched behind thick glasses and layers of “this is how it’s always been.” God, in that version, was wise but mostly silent, handing out life lessons with a side of disapproval. But over time, that image started to shift. Less crusty and closed-off, more like Grandmother Willow from Pocahontas—rooted, gentle, humming with deep, earthy wisdom. These days, God feels more like the thread that runs through my quilt—sometimes visible, sometimes knotted, but always there, tugging quietly at the edges, holding the whole thing together.

Then came my third semester. And with it, loss.

Within a short span, I said goodbye to people I loved. The kind of goodbyes that shake you down to the warp and weft of your being. The questions came fast and heavy:
Why do people suffer?
What happens when we die?
Is there really anything beyond this life?

These weren’t theological hypotheticals anymore. They were real. Raw. Personal. And honestly? I didn’t find answers. Not satisfying ones, anyway. But I did find comfort in knowing I wasn’t alone in asking.

There’s a quiet kind of holiness in questions. The kind that opens us up rather than shutting us down.

I think often of Mr. Rogers, who was perhaps one of the greatest theologians never formally called one. He’d sit with children and say things like, “I wonder…” and then leave space. Space to think. Space to imagine. Space to feel.

He didn’t rush to fill the silence. He didn’t insist on tidy answers. He simply invited curiosity.

There’s a book I’ve been meaning to read on this very topic called When You Wonder, You’re Learning. It’s about the tools Mr. Rogers used to cultivate wonder—tools like curiosity and creativity. Tools that cost nothing but change everything. Tools I believe are essential to faith.

Because faith isn’t the absence of doubt. It’s the courage to keep stitching, even when the pattern doesn’t make sense. It’s the willingness to ask, to wonder, to say, “This block isn’t lining up and I don’t know why.” And then to trust that the quilt is still worth finishing.

Maybe that’s why I feel so drawn to Thomas. He didn’t pretend to have it all figured out. He named what he needed. He asked to see the wounds. And Jesus didn’t shame him. He met him in his questions. He offered his hands. He said, “Here. Touch. Believe.”

And then Jesus added something beautiful—something just for us:
“Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

That’s us. The ones still stitching. The ones who haven’t seen, but still hope. The ones who dare to say, “I wonder…”

So I’ll leave you with a few wonderings of my own:

I wonder what it would’ve felt like to touch resurrection.
I wonder what resurrection looks like in our world today.
I wonder what questions still need asking.
I wonder what you’re stitching together, even now.
I wonder…

Benediction for the Wondering Ones

Go now with your questions still unraveling,
your seams not quite aligned,
your faith stitched together with doubt and hope in equal measure.

May you find holiness in the asking,
grace in the pulling apart,
and peace in the not-yet-finished quilt of your becoming.

May the God who welcomes your wonder,
the Christ who meets you in your wounds,
and the Spirit who whispers through the threads
go with you—always a hand on the needle,
always a whisper saying,
“I’m right here.”

Go in love. Go in wonder. Go in peace.
Amen.