quilting (v)—the term given to the process of joining scraps of fabric together, and then joining that to at least two other layers, to create a warm covering, which is sort of like the way God joins us together for different seasons of our lives to warm us against what's cold and broken in the world

 

I’m sitting next to a window that’s wide open, though it probably should only be cracked. It’s the first spring-like day of the year, and the earth has ditched it’s thick, snowy blanket for brown grass flecked with green. There’s a bright sun in a blue and white sky, and the air is alive with birdsong, so the temperature seems warmer than it would if this was later in the year.

Still, there’s a cool edge at the back of the breeze blowing in, and so I smooth my quilt over my lap, tucking it around my bare toes. I trace each piece with my finger, finding the somewhat imperfect seams that join each bold, scrappy piece to the ones next to it, and I smile, remembering the spring day three years ago that I sat cross-legged on the floor, piling up this sunset of colored fabric all around me.

Some of the patterns, taken on their own, aren’t necessarily ones that would have caught my eye. That golden one with the brown flecks, for example, or the cream-colored one with hearts. But once I’d laid them all out, measuring and cutting them into precise shapes, and sewn them together piece by piece, I could appreciate them for what they were. I could see the see the beauty they brought to the whole.

Because even though I didn’t immediately gravitate to a particular piece of fabric, it was those pieces that became blocks, and the blocks built the quilt front. And then came the batting and the backing, and the slow process of joining those three layers by hand, tiny stitch by tiny stitch. They added the warmth and structure to the whole quilt: the one I now sat curled beneath in the spring breeze.

Three years in the making. Longer, if you count the dreaming that led up to it.

You see, I had the dearest teacher when it came to learning to quilt. We met as eighteen-year-olds, brand new adults turned out into the world alone for the first time, and in one another we found a friend of the heart, though we didn’t recognize it right away. I don’t think you could find a set of girlfriends more different: she’s an early bird, and I’m a night owl. She’s an introvert, and I’m an extrovert. She’s calm and down-to-earth, while I’ve got my head lost in the clouds, and no one would ever use the word “calm” to describe me.

And yet, somehow, whenever one of us reaches out, the other has a hand there already, waiting. This friendship of ours has stood the test of both time and distance, and has seen us through births and deaths, marriages and moving, and most recently, the pandemic. It has offered a listening ear more times than we could count, and poured out grace upon grace over each failing.

When we lived half a continent apart, relying on phone calls to keep the bond strong, we daydreamed together of the day we could sit in the same room again, mugs of tea at hand, and make these works of art together. It was three years ago that this chance finally came. We found a pattern and set to work, my friend as the teacher and me as the student. She finished hers long before me, of course. But once I’d caught up, and we spread them out side by side on the floor, I had to laugh. Though we’d used the same pattern, our finished pieces were as wildly different as we were. And it occurred to me, then, what a perfect metaphor this was for our dear, dear friendship.

But you can take it further than just that. As I sit here in the sunshine, quilt over my knees, this quilt reminds me of all those people who have touched my life in some way. You see, I’m a firm believer that God places people in our lives very precisely. When we meet each person; the circumstances surrounding those events; the characteristics that shape the relationship… they’re as different as the scraps of material in my quilt. Some friendships might not seem as impactful, or last as long, or go as deep. Some may ebb and flow with the changing days, or be bonds made more of circumstance than common ground. But for one reason or another, but they still have something to add, and without them, there would be a glaring empty space in the pattern.

And I am grateful for each and every one of them.

For each and every one of you.

 

unity (noun) -- the state of being of togetherness; an elusive but important thing that wraps itself around and around us, differences and all.

 

 

You guys… this picture says so much.

In this picture are four siblings, raised in the same household by the same parents.  

In this picture are four siblings who voted four different ways in the presidential election.

One voted republican; one democrat; one third party; and one deliberately withheld a vote.

Each of us wrestled with our convictions. We researched the candidates’ positions on everything from economic to social issues. We prayed for God’s guidance in how to exercise the solemn and beautiful right to vote. And on November 3^rd, each of us walked into our respective polling places and cast our votes accordingly.

And—this is the part that really matters—we each voted our conscience, and we each voted differently.

Why does that matter so much?

Well, first of all, it matters because it illustrates how four Jesus-loving, Bible-believing Christians can follow God’s call to different ends… and still be “good” Christians. Our God is way too big and too radical to fit neatly into one political party or the other.

Second, it matters because it proves that disagreements don’t have to mean division. It means we can have conversations that don’t end in “us vs. them”. It means that there can be an end to this season of bitter dissent, of hands over ears and louder and louder voices.

This picture is a step toward healing the ache in my heart, and the rift in our country, because it is a picture of unity.

It’s a picture—one facet—of America the beautiful.

immeasurable (adjective)—vast, untold, and beyond our measure, because maybe we lack something (like the creativity and the earnest willingness) to ask and seek and find.

There’s been a little sing-song voice in my head lately, humming a simple refrain over and over in the background of my day-to-day. And it's this:

“Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.” (Ephesians 3:20-21, AMP)

These days, when so often I feel like my only response to things is wide-spread hands and a shrug, this little chorus has pulled my focus back and put it in its proper perspective. I, like many of us, don’t recognize the old patterns of my life in the severe forms of this new one. This has been hard to navigate, and I would be lying if I said I never broke down crying for what has been lost (in my personal life and in the world at large) in this season.

But then comes the quiet voice, rising up out of the clamor. And it seems to me that wanting to go back, and pretending that I can do life as the old normal, is maybe the wrong response to this challenge when God can do immeasurably more than what might occur to me to ask or, even broader, to imagine.

We were in a rut, maybe. We were putting God in a box to think that he could only speak to us in the routines we were used to; only act in the circumstances of our lives as they had been. Instead of accepting the call to face the challenges of 2020 with fresh eyes, creative minds, and compassionate hearts, we made it into a battleground of masks vs. no masks; of social distancing vs. not social distancing. 

 I recently heard a pastor preach a sermon based in part on Hebrews 10:24-25:

“… and let us consider [thoughtfully] how we may encourage one another to love and to do good deeds, not forsaking our meeting together [as believers for worship and instruction], as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another; and all the more [faithfully] as you see the day [of Christ’s return] approaching.” (AMP)

In his message, he talked about how different it would look if we made a point, as followers of Jesus, to motivate each other toward acts of love, instead of buying into the cultural idea of friendship. Then he went on to challenge people in his congregation who have not been going into his church building to participate in a typical worship service. (Most of these people were not attending because this church had decided not to follow any of the CDC recommendations regarding COVID.)  Even those who were participating in the service online were, according to him, in direct violation of this snippet of Scripture. He claimed that this was the work of Satan, who is using this to break up the church and stop Christians from gathering together.

My heart grew so heavy at those words. While that’s a true concern and challenge the church is currently facing, how is that out-of-context chastisement “encouraging one another to love and do good deeds”? How is it doing anything except widening the gap between Christians on both sides of the issue of our COVID response: metaphorically patting on the back those church members in the building, and slapping the wrists of those watching online at home. Because while it’s true that human beings are designed by a Triune God to be in community with one another, when he wrote those words Paul was not speaking to a world stricken with a virus that preys on the vulnerable members of society. And how often, in both Old and New Testaments, are we charged with looking after the defenseless among us?

John 13 tells the story of how Jesus took on the demeaning task of washing his disciples’ feet: a job usually reserved for servants, not a highly respected teacher. By doing this, he was showing us that this is what compassionate love does. It humbles itself, and serves others just as they are. When I see our culture place our desire to “take a stand” over our willingness to get down on our knees and love people where they are, that is when I see the darkness winning. Not in families sacrificing the old norm of their lives in order to protect the vulnerable among us. Not in churches stewarding well the gifts God blessed them with by seeking new and creative ways to come together for worship, instruction, and community beyond a traditional worship service and activities. And not in a willingness to wear a mask, and in so doing humbly kneeling down, rather than taking a stand, on a subject that is neither theological, spiritual, or moral. No, the darkness triumphs when we let things like COVID fracture the unity we have in Christ.  Hopelessness wins when we try to confine God to old habits of church—and of life—instead of inviting him into the chaos of our present. Fear dominates when we say no to a God who is holding out his hands, ready for us to ask for immeasurably more now, in the middle of all this, than we had pre-pandemic.

“For though I am free from all men, I have made myself a slave to everyone, so that I may win more for Christ. To the Jews I became as a Jew, so that I might win Jews for Christ; to men under the Law, I became as one under the Law, though not being under the Law myself, so that I might win those who are under the Law. To those who are without (outside) the Law, I became as one without the Law, though I am not without the law of God, but under the law of Christ, so that I might win those who are without law. To the weak I became as the weak, to win the weak. I have become all things to all men, so that I may by all means (in any and every way) save some by leading them to faith in Jesus Christ. And I do all this for the sake of the gospel, so that I may share in its blessings along with you.” (1 Corinthians 9:19-23, AMP)

 

Friends... let us go and do likewise.