“Early in the morning, Jesus stood on the shore, but the disciples did not realize that it was Jesus. He called out to them, ‘Friends, haven’t you any fish?’” John 21:4–5
On a cool Autumn day, tawny light streaming in through our balcony door, I sit down with a pile of boys’ jeans. Torn at the knees, they need mending. I finger a pile of fabric scraps. A square cut from a beloved but disintegrating flannel shirt forms one patch, a rectangle of leftover gifted fabric creates another. Setting the patches over the tattered denim, I thread a needle and begin to stitch. Slowly, the jeans become wearable again, though altered from their original state. I’ve returned to them and been patient with them. The gathered fragments render them small works of memorial art.
On a muddy shoreline long ago, light hoisting over the horizon in oranges and magentas, Jesus mended. Wrists bearing puffy pink scars, he set his hands to stirring coals, kneading dough, and gutting fish. Squinting into the light, he watched as a boat’s silhouette grew larger. Disappointment hung thick in the morning air, heavier than the empty nets. Jesus called to his friends. He knew his words might flood them with memories, returning them to the place where they first followed him. Throw your nets on the right side… come to me. On this morning, he set out to mend the broken hearts that bore betrayal, disappointment, and trauma one stitch at a time. Fishermen cannot catch fish with nets left unmended. His companions knew this. They would understand his necessary work that morning.
Our Call to Mend—Not to Throw Aside
Mending, a quiet domestic work, feels rare these days. We can run out to buy a new pair of jeans or order them online in minutes. We discard the old ones, assuming they disappear when we take out the trash. We reserve the right to change churches, cease communication, or find new friends. We avoid awkward repeated encounters and words are left unsaid. We’d rather these disappear along with the weekly garbage collection.
When my family lived for over a decade in an international community situated in a politically and religiously charged region with a harsh desert landscape, we observed frequent ripping. Our clothes wore out in months instead of years in the hot sun and dust. Our friendships experienced more relational friction and frank blows because of language barriers and cultural differences. This felt painful and exhausting.
Initially, we longed for racks of crisp new clothes without a frayed hem or stain in sight. We hankered for a way out of tough conversations with colleagues, a shiny new small group, and a clean slate. These things were not available to us there.
In our desperation, we learned the art of mending.
Mending uses small hopeful acts, time, and repetition to repair frayed relationships where mistakes have been made.
The Art of Mending
In order to rejoin broken seams, we must first find something to cover the injury. We use old fabric fragments made of memories that feel hopeful. The Japanese art of sashiko-style mending, called boro, uses small rhythmic stitches to fasten a patch in place, leaving an orderly thread matrix that transforms a broken textile into a bold artistic statement—a boast. Repetition, patience, and a gentle return to memories make up the ingredients for a well-mended garment.
When a cross-cultural friendship began to sink beneath the waves of misunderstanding, choked by the undercurrent of our shared brokenness, I didn’t know what to do. We’d said words to one another that wounded, and our lack of a shared heart language only made things worse. I wanted refuge from strained interactions and my own thoughts in the wake of them. The frayed hem and ripped knees of that relationship reminded me of my shortcomings and made me feel angry.
I wanted a trash bin and some new clothes. But in our sincere desert work, these were not available to me. John 13:35 pricked my raw heart, reminding me that Jesus called his followers to love one another and so draw the world to his own heart. We must mend.
The Careful Work
First, I needed protection around our relationship’s threadbare spaces. Apologies made, there was still much to do. We needed a boundary around this delicate work. This border looked like carefulness in our words with one another, space interpersonally, and strict avoidance of all gossip. We didn’t need any other hands fingering our ripped fabric, making it all more tender.
We needed a covering too, a safe place to meet as friends while the deeper things slowly healed. Our shared love of beauty and creativity became our simple patch. We both relished secondhand shopping and making things. She asked me for advice as she pieced her first felted wool quilt. I reached out to her for ideas in the midst of a birthday cake decorating conundrum. When life challenges arose, little notes made their way along with pressed flowers and packets of coffee mix. Small things. Colorful little patches and slow stitches.
The two of us were not meant to share a deep friendship. And that was ok. I celebrated the safe places where we met and appreciated one another. Our mending efforts were not perfect. They were messy, really. But they were not dead. I could feel that the fabric of our friendship was once again usable, wearable, and beautiful in its own way. We refused to use the trash bin and the slow stitching we shared would create something hopeful for both of us. In the meantime, I lifted up my friend in early morning hours, praying scripture and blessing over her. This was a faith act, turning over the deeper work to my Father, letting him suture and heal the things I could not touch.
Following His Example
When Jesus encountered his disciples after his crucifixion and resurrection, he knew they needed a safe way to encounter him after the pain of recent events. He returned with them to nourishing memories—the charred earthiness of roasted tilapia and the inflection of his voice as he called out fishing advice over the waves. He used repetition to intentionally fasten restorative statements over the words of betrayal Peter uttered only weeks earlier. Do you love me? Stitch. Do you love me? Stitch. Do you love me? Stitch. These men would become his bride, the church, after all. They needed to know how to mend relationships.
In a quiet space, I finger a set of soft pink overalls, purchased at the secondhand market by my friend. She ventured into our Middle Eastern downtown area to purchase them for my baby girl along with two cardigans, whimsical designs embroidered into their knitted bodices. I snap a photo of my daughter in her pretty new clothes and send it to my friend, knowing we’ve both learned more about repurposing and repairing relationally in this season. We’ve made space for our master mender to heal us in his own time and way. Little stitches and simple acts dressed us in hope.
