Thursday of Holy Week: Washed and Wounded

A reflection on pressing fabric, pressing through pain, and being held in it all.

Psalm 103:8, 13–14
“The Lord is compassionate and merciful… like a parent has compassion for their children.”

Lately, tenderness looks like permission. Permission to rest. To sleep a little longer. To order food instead of cooking. To quilt instead of folding laundry. And somehow, that permission feels like a kind of grace—a gentleness I wasn’t always taught to offer myself.

Maundy Thursday holds that kind of softness. A kind that kneels. That pours water into a basin and touches the dirty, tired parts of us without flinching. It’s a night of vulnerability—the kind that’s often uncomfortable to receive.

I remember a few years ago, leaving a toxic church job where I had been hurt, dismissed, manipulated. They offered me transitional pay—on the condition that I sign an NDA to keep quiet. I refused. I needed them to know that I couldn’t be bought. That silence wouldn’t be their safety net. But what happened next floored me: friends and colleagues, without being asked, shared my Venmo info. Within hours, more money had been given to me—no strings attached—than the church had offered. With every donation came messages like, “Don’t sign. We believe you. We’re with you.” It was holy. And honestly, it was overwhelming. Sometimes, being cared for so deeply feels too big to hold.

That’s what Maundy Thursday is, though. Love that gets low to the ground. Love that doesn’t demand performance. Love that says, “You don’t have to earn this.”

I struggle with the image of God as a compassionate parent—because mine weren’t always that. But I do think of my Granny. I think of her lap. Her shoulder. Her quiet way of holding space. Maybe that’s why I connect so deeply to the image of the Divine Mama. She kneels beside us, not above us. She doesn’t ask us to clean up first. She just comes close and loves us there.

There’s something Maundy-like in quilting, too. I’ve made so many gifts for others over the years—like a llama quilt I gave my friend Jackie for her wedding. A joyful, silly offering made sacred by intention. But before I ever cut into fabric for a new quilt, I press it. Flattening wrinkles, softening it, preparing it. Sometimes I prewash, too—especially if the project requires precision. That softening is part of the process. A way to ensure it will hold, even after everything changes.

That’s what this day feels like to me: the pressing, the washing, the preparation. Not dramatic, but essential. It’s easy to avoid what we know will hurt. I’m still learning that. But sometimes healing starts when we let ourselves be cared for—when we let someone else pour the water, hold the towel, say our name with love.

These days, God shows up in text messages. In Substack comments. In random check-ins. In the little moments that remind me: I’m seen. I’m known. I’m loved. And isn’t that the heart of Maundy Thursday?

A God who kneels.
A love that lingers.
A thread of compassion holding us all together.

A Benediction for the Softening

May the God who kneels to wash your feet
bless the parts of you that ache to be held.
May she cradle your tired spirit in her lap,
and press you gently into the warmth of belonging.

May you know that compassion does not need to be earned—
that tenderness is holy,
and you are worthy of care,
even when you can’t offer it to yourself.

May you let love find you in quiet places:
in messages from friends,
in the grace of rest,
in the soft weight of a quilt across your body.

And when the path ahead feels hard,
may you trust that God has already pressed the fabric,
washed the cloth,
and is holding the pieces
until you are ready to be sewn whole again.

Amen.