The Kind of Love That Lingers

Because sometimes ‘steadfast love’ shows up in drag and dances under a disco ball.

Your faithful love is priceless, God! Humanity finds refuge in the shadow of your wings. —Psalm 36:7

There’s a line in this psalm that says, “Your loyal love is so vast it reaches up to the skies; your faithfulness extends all the way to the clouds.” And I’ll be honest: I don’t always feel it.

I want to. I know the words. I know the theology. I’ve preached the sermons.

But lately, when I hear about God’s steadfast love, the first thing I feel isn’t comfort—it’s skepticism. There are only so many times you can open yourself up to love and be left holding the silence before your heart starts to wonder: is any love really that steadfast?

Maybe you’ve wondered that too.

That’s part of what makes this psalm feel both hard and hopeful. It speaks of abundance—feasting on God’s house, drinking from a river of joy—but I think abundance is something I’m still relearning. Especially after heartbreak. Especially in grief. Especially in the long stretch of Lent.

But here’s the thing about faith: it doesn’t always require you to feel it. Sometimes it just asks you to keep showing up. Even when it’s hard. Even when your prayers sound more like silence. Even when love feels like a concept instead of a comfort.

Back in December, when grief was pressing in with full weight, a member of my congregation invited me on a walk along the coast. She and her husband live in Pebble Beach, and we made our way through the path until we reached a clearing. That’s when she turned to me and said, “This is my prayer beach.”

She gave me space—no sermon, no platitudes, just silence and shoreline.

(This isn’t the prayer beach because I didn’t take any pictures that day…but you get the idea)

And I broke open. I cried. I screamed a little. I gave God the unfiltered version of my heart, the version that didn't know what to do with the ache or the silence or the unanswered questions.

I didn’t leave feeling healed. But I did feel held.

Not by a person, exactly—but by the wind mussing my hair, the salt on my tongue, the way the ocean stretched out so big it could carry all the pain I couldn’t name. There’s something about a shoreline that feels infinite—like if steadfast love could take physical form, it might sound like waves and smell like salt and leave your skin just a little softer afterward.

This Lent, I’ve been quilting more. Not for a big project, not to make anything perfect, just to move my hands. There’s something sacred in that for me—stitching, cutting, ripping out seams when things go wrong. When I’m at my machine, the outside world disappears. I stop thinking about what’s happened or what I have to do next. It’s just me, the fabric, and the thread pulling something broken back together again.

Quilting is a kind of prayer, especially when words fail. It’s also a kind of confession: I didn’t get this right. I stitched the wrong pieces together. I have to start over. And sometimes that’s holy work too.

When I imagine what this psalm might look like as a quilt, I think of linen. Soft. Breezy. The kind of fabric that gets gentler every time you wash it. I picture curved blocks and bright colors, maybe a few stars. Circles without corners. Seams that have been ripped out and stitched again. Because that’s what abundance looks like to me now—not perfection, but persistence.

And then—there are moments.

Moments that surprise you with joy when you’re not even looking for it.

Earlier this month, I was in LA and ended up going out dancing in WeHo. A group of new friends, a crowded club, drag queens, music, sweat, movement. And in the middle of that messy, glittering chaos—I swear to you—it felt like church. Like the kind of church where no one’s judging what you’re wearing or wondering who you love. Like a space where joy is visible, embodied, and shared. It was holy.

It reminded me that steadfast love shows up in unexpected places. Beaches. Dance floors. Late-night texts from friends. A toddler’s laugh. A teenager’s absurdity. Fabric under your fingers. The quiet presence of someone who stays.

My best friend Jackie stayed.

When I came out and so many people from my youth turned away, Jackie stayed. Through heartbreak, through ordination, through all the tangled in-between. She reminds me that God’s love isn’t just some abstract theological idea—it can also show up in flesh and bone and loyalty. Steadfastness isn’t flashy, but it’s fierce.

That’s what I think this psalm is trying to say. That love is still here. Even if it feels far away. Even if it’s hidden in the clouds. Even if all you can feel is the wind on your face and something stirring in your spirit that says, you are not alone.

If someone sat beside me while I was quilting and asked what God’s love feels like, I wouldn’t give them a sermon.

I’d hand them my granny’s quilt.
And I’d let them wrap up in it until the warmth started to speak for itself.

A blessing for the fourth week of Lent:
May you be surprised by joy in strange places.
May love wrap around you like linen, soft with use.
May the wind remind you that you're not alone,
and may the sea remind you that you’re not too much.
When the seams don’t line up, may grace hold them anyway.
And when you forget what abundance feels like,
may it dance its way back to you—glitter and all.
Amen.