The Quilt We Make Together
by Dwight J. Friesen
No single square
ever calls itself the quilt.
It arrives offering what only it can
its own beautiful history—
a worn sleeve,
a child's Sunday dress,
a farmer's shirt softened
by seasons of weather and work.
On their own
they are glorious stories.
But place them beside another,
and another,
leave room
for unlikely colors to touch,
and something begins
that none of them could have imagined.
Even the thread,
almost invisible,
offers its life
holding strangers together.
My Anabaptist ancestors
seemed to know this.
Around long tables,
without hurry,
their hands stitched
their relational theology:
that no piece is expendable,
no pattern complete
without the one still waiting
to be sewn in.
The corner no one notices
keeps the whole quilt square.
The faded cloth
and the bright one dance.
Even the patch
covering an old tear
becomes part of the beauty.
Perhaps creation itself
is being quilted still—
G-d gathering
every overlooked fragment,
every joy,
every wound,
every people,
not into sameness,
but into a warmth
large enough
to shelter the world.
And perhaps
our small calling
is simply this:
to keep threading the needle,
to believe
that every life belongs,
that every stitch matters,
and that flourishing
has always been
something
we make
together.
Peace, dwight
“The Quilt We Make Together”
