Quilt of Wonder

We all have those moments. The bursting kind that are used to measure the chasm between this garden and the next. The moments gather just as rising sun gives way to new sun set. And time-it continues to stitch the seconds, weaving itself in and out of this patchwork of life. Grace-filled moments come to us, braiding their way in, causing us to step back and catch what was difficult to make out in the middle when it all seemed too painful, too penetrating, as the needle was kneading. We behold the quilt from afar; see through the eye of the slender tool that is given in God’s Word, that sometimes the jagged seams are the ones that hold the most beauty. We are able to glimpse the Weaver’s wheel spinning; behold He uses the bristles to create what is becoming.

It’s been a year for me. A whole year since “that moment.” A moment that pumps steadily, somewhat frozen in memory, providing life to places I would, at times, rather leave breathless. The kind of moment that begins to pulse powerfully at the most unexpected of times. And before I know it, it’s suddenly beating…beating hard against the edges of my heart, reminding me of the “before,” and “after” that has marked its way into my existence. “Mom! It’s time to set up the Christmas tree!” All that childlike glee and expectation bubbling over-that’s all it took for the inner vibrations to begin.

I’m the kind of girl that sees Thanksgiving approaching and the internal excitement over Christmas begins. Why not light the tree that seems to bring cheer, and sing the carols that tell of our Savior’s birth? After all, isn’t He the one we are most thankful for? What better way to celebrate than getting the tree up as soon as possible, and taking it down as late as is acceptable? One year as Valentine’s Day crept up on me, I struggled to convince myself it was anything but laziness that kept me from putting the evergreen away. But one year ago? I didn’t feel capable of setting up the Christmas tree. The weakness, the tingling sensations, the fear had so enveloped me, that I had a hard time putting one foot in front of the other. I just couldn’t do it. But my husband had led… “Let’s do it together…Mom isn’t feeling well, but we are all going to pitch in.”

Christmas 2020-Cue tissue paper thrown from boxes; ornaments held high with children’s names scrawled on glassy bottoms. “This one is yours Bethany! Remember Dad and Mom gave you the gumball ornament because you loved candy so much? Remember that time you got into mom’s purse and swallowed like 30 sticks of gum, and we thought you might start farting bubbles?” All the giggles erupted…why did the laughter seem to be fracturing me right in two? “Oh Kennedy…I love that horse ornament…remember when Dad had to glue it’s hoof back on for you?” “Awww…Alison gets her first ornament this year…her very first!” And, “Jayden-this tractor is definitely yours. Where are you going to put it?” “Mikayla-you hung that SO high!” Then the ornaments that hold our family photos were taken out gently, as treasured possessions. A leading through the years, beginning with the one that contains a picture of when it was just him and me. Their words dripped out, lightening the weight on my heart. A bit of salve to the sorrow. “Momma, do you want to hang this one? It’s a special one.” It is a special one…heart draped from velvet string. The ornament he had given me. The one that had started the tradition. I clutched it close…scared to open it for fear the ache would arrest me. I had closed my eyes, tears pooling at my heart’s corners. My trembling fingers cracked it open, exposing the smiles entrapped within…his arm draped over my middle as I nestled in the crevice of his stronghold. Our first tree loomed behind us…the tree that we still have today. The tree that seemed totally frivolous to purchase at the time, but the tree he had encouraged me to buy…because he knew, he always seems to know my heart. Then came the picture on my husband’s internship…that Christmas we had become parents…that “first” that there was more to him and me. House ornament marked 2013 swayed on tree’s bow, marking the first Christmas in our new home. I had remembered…remembered the way my gut throbbed deep when the picture was taken. How the raw pain continually scratched at my insides after we had just lost our baby. The baby we never met…the baby we never named. My eyes moved to 2014 where my belly bulged…it had almost been time; time to meet our firstborn son. I recalled God’s faithfulness. How He had mended some of my broken places. My thoughts had shifted as laughter scattered like refreshing rain from wee lips. They held out the ornament our dog Bella had made it into. Christmas hats resting on our heads…Bella’s too. We were happy. So very happy. Then there was the Christmas the pre-lit tree failed to light. Frustration had arisen. Lacerations lined our hands as we cut and snipped at all the green. But joy had come and nestled itself right in. Coming as we soul-shared while the children watched cartoons…tucking itself in as new lights were strung; connecting us with the twinkle of our meeting eyes…because we knew-knew this was a memory in the making. Then came the snapshot taken at the waterpark from the Christmas just before…the one where we wore wolf ears. It was the Christmas I found out I was pregnant…pregnant after yet another miscarriage. God again, had been faithful. I stood looking at this tree…pondering…knowing, that God was faithful. Yet, I stood wondering if this would be my last Christmas standing…or if the next would hold a photo of me in a wheelchair.

It had been just a couple days later when my husband was making a puzzle in the living room. Puzzles…they take patience. It’s no wonder I don’t really enjoy them. He worked through all the fragmented pieces, finding the way to fit them perfectly together. I asked him for the 100th time if he thought what I knew to be true…I was dying. I was sure of it…was trying to come to terms with it. Trying to tell him I loved him; that I was sorry that he would have to care for me; that our marriage would be different. But sometimes it doesn’t matter how many times someone says what you want to hear, or how much you want to believe them…the heart, it still aches…because God…He is the One you desperately need to hear. And it was in that moment that everything changed for me…for us. That moment my husband gently gathered me up and led me in prayer. That moment he said, “I came across a video on anxiety, do you want to watch it with me?” That moment I thought he was crazy, along with every doctor who couldn’t find out what was wrong with me. That moment he knelt with me. The moment that gave realization-for different reasons, my body was burning out, and I struggle with anxiety.

And this year as my children decorate the tree, I remember that moment-the collection of moments from just one year ago. All the remembrances refuse to cease. They sweep up beside me, somewhat piercing as I recall the time measured in pain. Their echoes nuzzle at me, brushing my cheek most tenderly, providing comfort in an unexpected way. Because His hand, it caresses, soothes, in places I didn’t even know were strained. He causes me to remember the puncturing path that proved His faithfulness amidst the pain. I remember the fear. The fear of the unknown. Recall the isolation that imprisoned me as I felt no one understood. I think back on the receptionist…the one who listened to me break down on the phone, all of me shattering like fallen glass, as she informed me it would be a couple months before I could make an appointment. She had called back, and her words, they whisk me along as I follow the memory- “I can get you in after the weekend.” When I discovered she had called in a friend as a personal favor, my tears fell openly…she caught them, told me in unsaid words, that for unknown reasons, although I was but stranger, she understood I needed to be seen. I remember the technician’s gentle heart…how she played gospel music as the machine worked its way around my head. The notes of praise remembered spew forth the imprinted sounds. Those clicks of MRI imaging my brain...how I sought to drown out the noise with the lyrics of God’s mercy. The prayer I kept uttering snatches for my memory, “Lord, just give me contentment…please. Lord please…” I feel it now as I felt it then-how I sensed the pleas drawing me to Him, even though every breath I drew was also drawn in fear. I can hear the concern of that passerby, who when he saw me crying on that bench, waiting silently, asked if I was ok. And I remember thinking-no one should have to go through these kinds of things alone. And that doctor…this woman who called me late at night to tell me everything looked alright. The doctor who showed the hands and feet of Christ to me, in more ways than I have ever done. I remember the collapse. The collapse of relief. Recall the defeat. Defeat over feeling like I wasn’t measuring up as a Christian, but not knowing what to do differently. Remember the heavy sigh that made me feel light as I came across Shona Murray’s book Refresh...remember the exhale I gave, knowing I wasn’t crazy…that I wasn’t a bad Christian. I simply struggle with anxiety. A term that sounded so terrifying, but one I realized was often misunderstood.

My children’s glee over Christmas spills over, bringing me back to the here and now. But my memories, they are all spilling within. And how the experience drawn up from the well has been like that of Asaph…my own calling to remembrance. How my troubles had run long into the night, and my soul, it refused to be comforted. I tossed and turned; my eyes had been held waking. The Spirit groaned for me as I lay a bleating sheep. For I was so troubled…my mouth was held from speech. It sometimes feels like an infirmity Lord-a shock that courses through the veins. One my nature would oft prefer to stifle. Yet, I hear You calling me to remember. I commune with my heart; my spirit makes diligent search for all the things…all the “things” that You will use to imprint more of You onto me. Your footsteps are unknown to me, but there was never a time I was unknown to You. How Israel must have shook when you opened up the waters, but Your way, it was in the deep of sea. And You led them; led them like a little flock by Your hand, as You are always leading me. It comes to me then. There’s never a timing that seems like the right timing to be broken. But in every moment, we can confess to trust God in His timing. Jesus too, in His humanity petitioned God for another way. But His humility, it submitted to the knowledge that not only was there no other way, but that this was the perfect way…the death of self was the way of the sea. Yes Lord, I will talk of Thy doings…will let my tongue give escape-sing of the close-knit grit and glory You have gifted Me. I see that the paved path of providence has stitched me close to Thee. Ornaments swing, but I am secure.

Lights shimmer. My heart glows. God given grace and glory break in, reminding me of the One who came from Jesse’s tree. Of that branch that shot forth from his roots. The new branch that came to save you and me. Dismissed Babe of Bethlehem who hung on wooden tree. Born in manger, no place fit for a King. Born of bright-eyed virgin who held him under pondering heart. Bottled her tears in His flask as He was fastened on the cross. Beheld His mother who so loved him; told his beloved friend to now behold her as his own. Infinite became infant. The Giver become the Gift. Wrapped up in His Father’s wrath. Tied in hellish pain so we might be wrapped securely in His quilt of bloodstains. Our family photos adorn verdant stems, yet He was stripped clean. Beaten and abused. Naked and ashamed. Thorns stabbed through his head, the barbs bleeding down. His frame gave way to broken, His limbs hung lifelessly …I am hung on His heart, because He was hung on a tree. How I rob Him when I try and hide my frailties, when they give way to His dying glory! I sew and sew my fig leaves, forgetting that He is the One weaving me. The path He trod was for my weakness-the wisdom many saw as vain. As He drew His first breath, and as He took His last- my name was always on His lips, His affection never lost.

It’s all a bit amazing that a moment, a single moment of remembering has brought me here to Jesse’s tree. I will stare. Hush my soul. Rush to the cross. The old, rugged tree. Take it all in… this moment fleeting…to remember how He was born to die on Calvary. The Star of David hung on tree…oh, how His love has ravished me. Ornaments of snow lick the sky, dancing around pined evergreen before falling gracefully. The start of Noel… a new bleak-midwinter giving way. Cold winds blow…ice that causes frames to weary. But I have the Baby born in barn of hay. This baby of my Father’s heart-who stitched me in my mother’s womb. God, who saw the blanket from before creation, with Jesus at the center, pierced by needle, to hold us at the seams. He has wrapped me up in The Quilt of Wonder. I will tell it to my children…let it be their memory. I am of this quilt of Jesus; am enraptured at the perfect quilt He is making me to be.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?app=desktop&v=8UqaW9N6GjU&fbclid=IwAR0fldC3zD4wl5xchNq5yND_L1brXPboKsT7HF0vobzlgrwauiTkrMIVEsg

https://www.youtube.com/watch?app=desktop&v=RzIBwK4WIVU&fbclid=IwAR3qPVwGM_07ohJd7yFC96Us0vA2B-Yg9jS0B428NF4AQXk4VdK0zjGp3rc