What do I do when something tears? What do I do when something that feels like part of me—something I have come to rely on—rips open, feels destroyed, or reveals something unexpected? I would like to say that I approach those moments with class and grace. But nine times out of ten, that is not the case. My first instinct is avoidance. Ignore the tear. Pretend it is not widening. Hope it will somehow resolve itself. 

The trouble is, when you ignore a tear—when you ignore something that is coming apart—you cannot see what is being revealed. And you certainly cannot do the work of mending it, in fabric or in yourself. I was conditioned from a young age to be wary of change, let alone tears. Change, I was taught both implicitly and explicitly, disrupts stability and predictability. What took me much longer to learn is that tears—while painful and disorienting—can be a strange kind of blessing. When something rips open, we must engage a new reality. We must consider new possibilities. We must rely on God in ways we might otherwise avoid. 

Last Sunday we sat with Torn. The roof in Mark’s Gospel is opened because there is no other way in. It is disruptive. Exposed. Honest. There is dust falling and light breaking through. It is not tidy and certainly raises more questions and awareness! 

But a tear is not the end of the story. 

This Sunday we turn toward Gathering the Edges. And that movement matters. Because before you stitch fabric, you gather it. You do not yank it back into place. You gently bring the separated edges close again. You smooth the fibers so they are not twisted. You sometimes pin them so they will hold steady. You make sure the tension is even—not too tight, not too loose. Gathering is patient work. It is attentive work. It requires you to look directly at what has torn without shaming the fabric for failing. 

In the Gospel story we will hear, Jesus does something similar. Before there is visible healing, there is attention. He stops. He sees. He draws someone into relationship. Before there is restoration, there is presence – there is meeting write at the edges of experience and existence. 

Between tearing and stitching, there is gathering. Between exposure and reinforcement, there is care. Lent teaches us not to rush past this middle space. It invites us to resist quick solutions and to trust that healing begins with being seen.  If the dust is still settling from a tear, you do not need to hurry toward repair. This week we practice gathering—bringing what feels separated back into gentle proximity, allowing God to meet us in the new reality that has opened. 

Later we will stich but for now, we gather the edges. 

Grace and Peace, 

M@