It seems I’ve had to hand stitch my quilt of faith when others have been given sewing machines.
But oh, the stitches are dear.
Every piercing holds fast by a thread of trust and it is mine alone. Some are crooked, some are small. Some you barely see at all.
Each season brings a new look as the quilt grows. The design emerges ever so slowly. There is a working to this faith that is not about merit, but desire.
The peace that passes understanding is not dropped upon me like a magic cloak. It comes from believing what I cannot see and through what I do not understand. Joy is often a choice made when I’m blinded by sorrow. And hope is what is left when I have nothing else, a pinpoint of light in the darkest tunnels of my life, compelling me forward.
All beautiful things that have made their way into my quilt. The quilt of faith that is designed to cover me and keep me warm in this life and carry me into the next.