When the season slides from summer into autumn, or winter sashays into spring, I have a ritual. I change the quilts on the walls. Over the years I have sewn ones with ice skaters and reindeer, silver stars and pumpkins. On the wall above the couch I recently hung a brown batik stained glass quilt that I finished last July. I adore it, and last night spent time gazing at each block while the girls were bent over books. 

People often ask how long it takes to make a quilt. I conjure up an answer, because when I am cutting fabric, time becomes obsolete. How different than when I am idling in traffic, and look with annoyance at the clock to prove to no one how large my inconvenience was. But a one block wonder takes somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty to forty hours. If it matters. 

Twice I have found quilts I gave to someone in the piles at the thrift store. It is jarring to see something I crafted with love tossed as a reject, but each time I tucked her under my arm, paid the inadequate price and brought her home. 

A friend was describing the dilemma she feels about a troubled marriage. She wants to be supportive to one of them, yet worries that it will come across as betrayal if she also listens to the other person. Then she said something that opened us both up.

"I guess that person is God's child too."

I could ask God how long it takes to craft a human being. Perhaps He would try to humor me with a number. I have an inkling there is no residual impatience, as I idle awhile in self pity, unwilling or unable to shift into compassion. 

Even though both partners in that marriage are reeling from rejection, the One who created them never will. If by chance they get waylaid He will eagerly tuck them under His arm and bring them home.