Wednesday of Holy Week: The Quiet Undoing

The sacredness of sadness stitched in silence—and the quiet ways God reminds us we’re held.

Psalm 107:10, 13–14
“They sat in gloom and darkness… Then they cried to the Lord… and God brought them out.”

There’s a particular kind of ache that comes from being left in silence. It’s not loud. It doesn’t break things. It just…vanishes. You’re left wondering if any of it was real. That’s how it felt when someone I cared about disappeared without a word. I knew he was going through something. I thought our connection was strong enough for honesty. But instead of conversation, there was silence. I was left with a pile of questions, sitting in the dark with a grief that didn’t get to say goodbye.

That kind of pain doesn’t scream. It knots itself into your stomach. It tightens in your shoulders. It sneaks into your day and weighs down everything you carry. But I’ve learned—slowly, tenderly—that writing can loosen the knot. That sewing can soothe the tension. My quilting studio becomes a kind of sanctuary, a space where my grief gets stitched into beauty.

Some of my quilts carry stories no one else sees. I think of the king-sized top I just finished—begun when my mother was in the hospital, carried through a job transition, a move, and the end of a relationship. That quilt holds so much sorrow stitched into every inch. But if you looked at it, you’d only see color and pattern. You’d see beauty. You wouldn’t know the tears in the thread. And maybe that’s okay.

I’ve been thinking lately about shadow blocks in quilting. Those dark spaces that give the brighter ones more depth. Sometimes I choose a deep background intentionally—not to hide the light, but to make it stand out. Grief has a way of doing that. So does silence. We can’t force joy to show up before it’s ready. Like in Inside Out, joy isn’t what heals the heartbreak—sadness is. Sadness knows how to sit and stay, to listen, to hold. Joy follows later, once she’s been given room.

Lately, “sitting in darkness” has looked like autopilot. Showing up when I didn’t want to. Doing the work even when I felt hollow. Going through the motions because the motions were all I had. But now and then, something breaks through: a note left on my desk. A small gift. A kind word from someone who didn’t even know I needed it. And in those moments, I think…maybe this is God.

Maybe God is the one who doesn’t need fanfare. Maybe she’s the one who leaves signs in inboxes and lunches on doorsteps. Maybe she’s the quiet that stays—not the silence that disappears.

And maybe what’s unraveling isn’t the end. Maybe it’s just the part we don’t show in the pattern—the thread buried in the seams, holding everything together.

A Benediction for the Quiet Grief

May the One who stitches light into shadow
bless your silent ache and your unspoken prayers.
May she sit beside you in the gloom,
not asking you to smile,
not rushing you to heal,
just staying—with soft hands and steady presence.

May you know your sorrow does not disqualify you.
Your questions do not offend God.
Your unraveling is not your undoing.

And when the light begins to return—
through a note, a meal, a voice,
or a glimmer of your own strength—
may you see it for what it is:
Love, coming quietly for you,
stitching beauty into your deepest places.

Amen.