A Love Letter to the Over-Fermented Ugly Loaf

Oh, ugly loaf.

You were left on the counter to rise.

And rise you did…

and did…

and kept rising until you deflated like a balloon that lost its will to live.

I meant well. Truly.

You were mixed with care. Folded with tenderness.

And then—forgotten.

It wasn’t personal.

I got distracted with laundry. Then a tantrum. Then the dishwasher decided to leak.

You, dear dough, became collateral damage in the great battle of the Tuesday That Got Away From Me.

By the time I returned, you were more soup than structure.

You looked at me with the same expression my toddler gives when I ask if she flushed the toilet.

Somewhere between guilt and chaos.

I still baked you, because I’m not a quitter.

Your crust? Barely there.

Your rise? Well… you did rise — just not in the way anyone hoped.

Your crumb? Tight. Moody. Slightly resentful.

Your flavor? Let’s call it “unexpectedly tangy with notes of neglect.”

You still arose, bless you.

But it was the kind of rise that says, “I tried, okay?”

And honestly? Same.

So here’s to the dough that didn’t go as planned.

To the homemakers who try anyway.

To the carbs that flop but still feed.

And to the reminder that even when things over-proof and underperform —

there’s still goodness to be found (usually under a heavy hand of kerrygold).

A Verse, a Candle, and Half a Cup of Coffee

This morning didn’t start with anything profound.

Just a lukewarm cup of coffee in a mug that’s been through a few too many microwave reheats.

A candle flickering more out of routine than reverence.

And an attempt to refocus on the good word, writing out scripture trying to make it stick. Something to cling to during the day a pride checker if you will.

“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.”

— Psalm 73:26

Initially I wasn’t reading the full chapter — just this one line I’d written days ago and left in my bible. But Asaph’s words before this provide a much needed attitude check in.

But something about it settled into me. Especially knowing where it comes from.

Comparison Will Rot Your Bones

Psalm 73 isn’t a soft psalm. It starts off gritty and brutally honest.

Asaph, the writer, is venting his frustrations — not with God, but with people.

Specifically, the arrogant, wealthy, and wicked who seem to have it easy.

“For I envied the arrogant when I saw the prosperity of the wicked… They have no struggles; their bodies are healthy and strong.” (vv. 3–4)

He’s honest:

He’s been watching others, comparing their lives to his own obedience — and it’s messing with him.

He even says, “Surely in vain I have kept my heart pure.”

That’s the voice of burnout, bitterness, and spiritual fatigue talking.

But Then Comes the Shift

Everything turns in verse 17:

“…until I entered the sanctuary of God.”

That’s when perspective starts to return.

Not because his circumstances change — but because his focus does.

It’s in the presence of God that the fog starts to lift.

And by the time we get to verse 26, we’ve moved from resentment to surrender:

“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.”

It’s no longer about what others have.

It’s about Who he belongs to.

What Comparison Steals, God Restores

It’s easy to scroll, to look around, to wonder if faithfulness is really “worth it.”

To ask why things feel hard while others seem to coast.

But comparison doesn’t just steal joy — it steals clarity.

And the longer we dwell in it, the more warped our view of God becomes.

Asaph wasn’t healed by getting answers.

He was restored by getting near.

When Strength Fails, Grace Doesn’t

That’s what this verse is.

A whispered realignment.

A confession that strength fails. Focus fails. Even our hearts — our best intentions — fail.

But God doesn’t.

He stays.

He steadies.

He is still the portion — not just for today, but forever.

This morning wasn’t revolutionary.

But that verse on the table became a quiet lifeline —

a reminder that when everything else gets loud or unfair or shaky…

He is still enough.

Prayers for the Weary Reader

When your heart wants wonder, but your soul feels foggy

Lately, I’ve found myself sitting down to read — Bible open, favorite book in hand — and feeling… nothing.

Not resistance, exactly. Not even distraction. Just a strange, quiet tiredness. Like my soul is full of fog, and I can’t quite see the page clearly. My eyes read, but nothing lands. My heart wants to connect, but there’s static in the signal.

It’s frustrating, especially when I’ve known the richness of reading as worship — how stories can stir something holy, how scripture has met me in a hundred quiet places. But in this season, even turning a page feels like work.

So instead of forcing it, I’ve started to pray small prayers in those moments. Not lofty ones — just honest ones. “Lord, quiet the noise.” “Jesus, remind me You’re here.” “Let beauty matter again.”

And I’ve found comfort in small rhythms that speak louder than words:

• Lighting a candle before I read anything — a way to welcome the Light before the content.

• Letting my Bible stay open on the table, even if I don’t feel ready to read it.

• Copying just one verse or line by hand, like a whispered yes in the fog.

• Taking walks without noise — no podcasts, no music, just the breeze and my thoughts trying to catch up.

These aren’t revolutionary practices. They’re barely liturgies. But they’ve helped me turn longing into a kind of worship. A way of saying, “God, I’m still here. Even when I don’t have much to offer.”

So if you’re a reader who’s too weary to read, a believer too foggy to focus, or just a soul that misses the wonder of words — know that you’re not alone. The Lord doesn’t measure devotion in chapters read or prayers perfectly spoken. He sees the ache. He holds the stillness. And He’s still speaking, even when we can’t quite make it out yet.

Keep showing up — even if it’s with a blank page and a heavy heart.

You’re not failing. You’re just being gently led.

With gentle faith and ink-stained fingers,

Mary

Still blooming, still battling, still belonging to Him

Here are some verses to look over or dive deeper with.

Verses About Being Brought Near + Finding Rest in Him

Ephesians 2:13

“But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ.”

Isaiah 30:15

“In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.”

Psalm 73:28

“But for me it is good to be near God; I have made the Lord God my refuge, that I may tell of all your works.”

Hebrews 4:16

“Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.”

James 4:8

“Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you.”

Psalm 34:18

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”

Matthew 11:28–29

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest… for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.”

Stories That Echo Something More

Some books stay with you.

Not just because they’re well written —

but because they touch something deeper.

A sense of wonder.

A hint of home.

A flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe,

the battle we’re fighting means something.

I made a list of books that do exactly that.

They’re clean, meaningful, and full of quiet truth —

even when they come wrapped in dragons, swords, or secret gardens. So here’s a gift for you a little list to spark a reading frenzy!

Bookish Escapes & Eternal Longing

I felt like talking about books this morning—

how they change us, and how some of them stay consistently at the forefront of our minds.

Some books don’t just entertain — they haunt.

Not in a spooky way, but in that back-of-your-throat, ache-in-your-chest kind of way.

That I-wish-this-was-real kind of way.

You know the ones.

The books that leave you staring at the last page like you’ve lost a friend.

Or worse — like you’ve been exiled from a world you loved.

You spent hours watching it unfold in your imagination,

dreading the ending because you didn’t want to leave.

These are the stories where light always overcomes darkness,

where battles are worth fighting,

love is sacrificial,

and hope is never wasted.

And your heart is left yearning for a world that doesn’t actually exist except between the pages you then held.

I used to think it was just escapism —reading to run.

Reality was loud, chaotic,

too much.

Books felt like the only sane moments I could hold onto.

Me, tucked away somewhere quiet, nose buried in a chapter that made sense when nothing else did.

But now I think it’s something holier:

A holy homesickness.

A soul that’s tasted eternity and knows deep down —

this isn’t home.

C.S. Lewis called it sehnsucht — that ache, that longing,

that deep-down yearning for a place we’ve never seen but somehow remember.

It’s the flicker of Eden still burning in our bones.

For me, fantasy makes that longing pierce even deeper.

It awakens a desire to live in those mystical, wonder-filled places —

where healing is real, good always triumphs, and everything broken finds restoration.

And maybe — just maybe —

 stories are more than imagination.

Maybe some authors are holding up looking glasses,

offering us a glimpse,

however muddy,

As we’re limited in our human understanding,

of what the New Heavens and New Earth might one day be.

Until then, the longing remains.

It stays with me as I scan the pages,

searching for home

while wandering through an alien world.

The ache of separation from the Kingdom we were made for.

The quiet flame in our chest,

reignited by our eternal Father and our guiding light home.

Books stir that.

Especially the good ones —

the ones with talking trees and unlikely heroes,

lost crowns and brave friendships,

prophecies and healing.

They echo the True Story written on our hearts:

That there is a Rescuer.

That evil doesn’t win.

That joy is coming.

That we are not abandoned in the middle of the plot.

So here’s to the stories that remind us:

we were made for more.

He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has wrought from beginning to end.

— Ecclesiastes 3:11

Even in fantasy, fairy tales, and folktales,

our hearts can find breadcrumbs

that lead us closer to the Author of it all.

A Quiet Strength: Honoring Fathers

Fatherhood doesn’t always look like grand speeches or perfect wisdom. Sometimes it looks like quietly fixing the squeaky step for the third time… with a sigh, a flashlight, and the exact right screwdriver they somehow always have.(Grandpa) Other times, it’s chasing kids through the sprinkler fully clothed, doing the bedtime voices no one else can top, or cutting sandwiches into oddly shaped dinosaurs because “triangles are boring.”

It’s brushing little girl hair with maybe not the gentlest hands you’ve ever seen — but he’s trying, even if the part is crooked and he needs three hair ties just to secure a ponytail. It’s sitting cross-legged at a tea party with a crown on his head. It’s Googling “what’s a fishtail braid?” at 6 a.m. because he’s determined to try. 

That’s fatherhood. The quiet heroism. The playful presence. The I’m-here-no-matter-what faithfulness. The terrible taste in jokes. The loud sneezes and stinky butts.

As a mom, there are moments when I just stand back and watch — holding the moment captive, witnessing something special unfold. Watching my spouse kneel down to pray with our children, laugh until he cries with them, or teach them something as simple as how to throw a baseball or play Mario cart — I see a bond being built. Brick by brick. Heart to heart. A closeness that will last.

And sometimes, that kind of fatherhood doesn’t come naturally — it’s learned, day by day, in the small, brave choices to show up and invest. That’s worth celebrating.

“The righteous man walks in his integrity; his children are blessed after him.” – Proverbs 20:7

But I know Father’s Day isn’t joyful for everyone. Maybe your own father was distant or absent. Maybe he’s passed on, and today feels hollow. Or maybe your heart carries wounds that only grace can soothe.

Can I remind you of this?

You have a Heavenly Father who sees it all. He’s never left. Never missed a moment. He’s the One who gently carries your pain, lovingly fills the gaps, and welcomes you with perfect, unwavering love.

“A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling.” – Psalm 68:5

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” – Psalm 34:18

“See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God…” – 1 John 3:1

So today, let’s celebrate the dads who lead with strength and tenderness. The ones who show up and stick around. The ones who learn new hairstyles and cry during the hugs after being away so long. The ones who stay up late painting rooms pink and wake up early to make pancakes shaped like hearts. 

And let’s celebrate the Father above all fathers — whose love is perfect, whose faithfulness is forever, and whose presence is never in question.

Whether you’re hugging your dad, missing him, watching your spouse become one, or clinging to the Father who never fails — may this day be full of gratitude, comfort, and joy that’s deep enough to last.

To strong hands, playful hearts, and the Father who holds it all together —

Mary

Slow the Stitch; What Sewing Is Teaching Me About Motherhood

Slow the Stitch: What Sewing Is Teaching Me About Motherhood

In a world that praises fast fixes, highlight reels, and overnight success, sewing has been teaching me something I didn’t even realize I needed: how to slow down. I am by no means a professional at either of these, but they are things The Lord has been using to teach me. Maybe they’ll be of some help to you as well my friend.

When I rush a seam, it shows. When I skip a step to “save time,” I usually end up unpicking it later — tangled thread, wasted fabric, and frustration that could’ve been avoided. Sewing doesn’t reward hurry. It invites patience. It requires presence. And honestly? So does motherhood.

It’s easy to get swept up in the pressure to do more and be more — to hit all the milestones on time, to plate balanced meals while little ones cry for nuggets, to create Pinterest-worthy playdates and picture-perfect routines. There’s nothing wrong with those things — they can be beautiful. But when they become burdens, when they become measuring sticks instead of choices, we start missing the grace.

Rigidity and haste don’t make room for fruitfulness. A heavy hand — even with the best intentions — can wear down a child’s spirit instead of shaping it with care.

“He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver…” – Malachi 3:3

God refines us in the slow heat — not in rushing flames, but in steady, intentional process.

Most days in this season, I’m just trying to drink my coffee before it goes cold. The laundry never ends. The dishes multiply like they’ve made a pact. And the toys? Somehow they’re always underfoot, no matter how often we tidy up.

But here’s what sewing is gently reminding me:

The goal isn’t speed.

It’s progress.

And beauty takes time.

Motherhood, like sewing, doesn’t always give you instant results. You pour out love, discipline, correction, kindness, meals, bedtime stories, midnight cuddles, whispered prayers — and you wonder if it’s sinking in. But then, out of nowhere, your child says something kind without being asked. Starts a prayer on their own. Folds a towel without being told. And it stops you in your tracks — like the perfect topstitch after a messy beginning.

“And let endurance have its perfect result, so that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.” – James 1:4

The long days are not wasted — they are forming something whole in us.

That’s the thing: the beauty is in the process.

Stitch by stitch.

Day by day.

And I’m learning to treat myself the way I treat my fabric — gently. With room to breathe. With space to make mistakes. With trust that it’ll all come together in time.

Some days, I finish a whole project. Other days, I’m lucky to thread the needle before someone calls, “Momma!” And that’s okay.

Here are a few ways I’ve been practicing a slower, more grace-filled rhythm lately — maybe they’ll encourage you, too:

Pause before reacting — like I pause before a seam. Take a breath before responding to a meltdown. A moment of calm can shift everything.
“In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.” – Isaiah 30:15

Pick up something creative just for the joy of it — sewing, painting, journaling, baking — not to be productive, but to be present.

Let some things stay undone without guilt. A load of unfolded laundry doesn’t mean you’re failing — it means you’re living.

Find your rhythm, not the world’s pace. Maybe you’re a slow-stitch kind of mom in a serger-speed world. That’s not a flaw — it’s a gift.

So if you’re feeling behind, frayed at the edges, or like everyone else is sewing their lives together faster and better than you — hear me:

It’s not about catching up.

It’s about staying faithful.

And maybe, just maybe…

It’s time to slow the stitch.

Here’s to soft starts, slow stitches, and grace for the process,

Mary

Finding Yourself in the Midst of Motherhood

There’s this funny little pause that happens after the morning chaos — when the last kid is (mostly) dressed, the cereal has been swept off the floor, and the house takes a deep breath right along with me. And in that moment, somewhere between reheating my coffee for the third time and finding a sock in the dog bowl, I think… Wait, who even am I outside all of this mess management? Not just “Mom,” but me — the whole person who used to have hobbies and thoughts and playlists that weren’t all Disney Princess songs.

Motherhood has a beautiful way of stretching us, doesn't it? We pour out so much love, so much energy, so much prayer. It’s easy to forget that we, too, are allowed to grow and explore — not just as caretakers, but as women, as creatives, as children of God.

Lately, I’ve been learning to invest in myself again. Not in big, flashy ways, but in quiet, meaningful ones: picking up a new hobby, sketching out apron patterns, learning to embroider a verse that once carried me through a long night. These small acts feel sacred — not distractions from my family, but offerings for them. Because when we create from a place of joy, our children get to see a woman who is alive and blooming, not just surviving. A woman who’s identity is not just in servanthood but creative realities as well.

And then, of course, there are the messes.

The paint spills. The tangled thread. The flour dusted across the floor from tiny helping hands. These once would have overwhelmed me (And still sometimes does) — it may take  multiple deep breaths but I try to see them for what they really are: evidence of life, and of grace. Every smudge and pile is a whispered reminder of prayers I once spoke through tears. Lord, give me a home full of life. Give me laughter and noise. Let me feel needed.

He did. And now, I learn to meet these moments — even the messy, undone ones — with gratitude.

If you’re in a season of feeling lost in the rhythms of motherhood, I want to gently remind you: you’re still in there. Try something new. Pick up the pencil, the needle, the camera, the book. Say yes to the thing that lights a spark. It’s not selfish — it’s stewardship of the soul God gave you.

We’re not just raising children — we’re becoming, too.

And becoming is always a little messy.

Keep blooming, even in the chaos.

With love and thread,

Mary

Matcha Musings: Before the Dawn

Small rituals, quiet moments, and meeting God before the noise.

This morning began in the dark. The kind of stillness where even the walls feel hushed. I lit two candles — uneven from yesterday’s slow burn — and whisked a quiet bowl of matcha. No music, no rush. Just the sound of the whisk, the earthy tea scent wafting about, and the glow of wax and flame.

There’s something holy about this in-between hour. When the world hasn’t asked anything of you yet, and God feels near in the hush. It’s not about productivity or perfectly curated quiet time routines. Which as a perfectionist I often get caught up in, when in reality being present matters more. It’s simply about showing up. Sitting in the stillness and saying, “Here I am.”

I thought of Psalm 130:6 as I watched the steam rise:

“My soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen wait for the morning, more than watchmen wait for the morning.”

That’s what this moment was — a kind of waiting. Not passive or anxious. Just open. Expectant. Letting the silence do its work. Letting the Spirit speak softly into it.

Not every morning feels this grounded. Some begin with chaos and spilled coffee and missed alarms. But when I can, these little moments fill my cup spiritually and physically: tea, candlelight, Scripture, breath. Because here is where I remember who holds the day. Here is where the noise loses its grip.

“Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed.” — Mark 1:35

If Jesus Himself sought the Father in the hush before sunrise, how much more do we need that sacred pause?

Before the dawn comes bursting in, before the tasks pile up — there is mercy. Fresh and quiet and waiting to be sipped slowly.

And when I forget? When I hit snooze or scroll too long? Grace still holds. He’s still near. But mornings like this are a soft reminder: God doesn’t just meet us in the mess and sorrow. He meets us in the matcha, too. He will always meet us in our joy too.

“Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you.” — Psalm 143:8

So here’s to holy slowness. To candlelit prayers and whisked green tea. Remembering that waiting on the Lord isn’t wasted time — it’s sacred ground.

With a quiet heart and warm hands,

Mary

Crafting For The Lord; Turning Mundane Gifts into worship

Crafting for the Lord: Turning Mundane Gifts into Worship

We often think of worship as singing, praying, or reading Scripture—but what if worship also looked like cutting fabric, kneading dough, or crocheting a blanket?

As women of faith, our hands are constantly moving—laundry, meals, little messes, late-night bottles, and restless children waking in the wee hours. These acts might feel ordinary, but when offered with love and intention, they become sacred.

God Delights in the Simple

Colossians 3:23 reminds us:

“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord.”

That includes every stitch, stir, and scrap of fabric repurposed.

Crafting might seem like a hobby to the world—but in the kingdom, it’s ministry. It’s communion. It’s praise whispered in yarn, thread, and even those tideous sourdough stretch and folds.(who remembers to do them for every interval?) I’m terrible at forgetting when my last set was. When we create with the Lord in mind—whether it’s a quilt stitched during prayer time, a loaf of sourdough offered to a neighbor, or a homemade card sent to a friend—we’re echoing the heart of a creative God.

Your Mundane Gift is a Holy Offering

You don’t need a platform to preach or a stage to sing. Your crafting corner, your sewing table, your kitchen counter—these are places to lay bare your gifts and see what he turns your offerings into. Every ordinary gift in your hands becomes extraordinary when surrendered to Him.

• The baby quilt you make might wrap a child in God’s comfort.
  
  

• The sourdough loaf might nourish more than just a stomach—it might soothe a lonely heart.
  
  

• The crocheted blanket might warm more than a body—it might be the physical reminder of a prayer you prayed over a hurting friend during physical healing.
  
  

Share What You Make with Joy

Don’t underestimate the power of what you make. Share it boldly. Not for praise or perfection—but for connection and joy. When we give what we’ve made with God, we’re passing along His love in tangible, textured ways. Sadly these arts are not passed down or taught readily like they used to be.

Ask yourself today:

• Who could use the warmth of something handmade?
  
  

• How can my crafting become a prayer?
  
  

• Am I using my talents to glorify the One who gave them?
  
  

A Heart Posture of Worship

Crafting for the Lord isn’t about the result—it’s about the heart behind the work. It’s the whispered prayer as you sew. It’s the Scripture card slipped into a gift. It’s the quiet moment of reflection when your home is still and your hands are busy.

This is worship.

This is holy.

This is joy.

So today, embrace your mundane gift. Bring it to the Lord. Offer it with open hands. And watch Him multiply your stitches, your stories, your small acts of love—into something eternal.

Reflection Prompt:

What gift have you considered “mundane” that God may want to use in a bigger way?

Scripture to Hold On To:

Romans 12:1 – “Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship.”

Little Sparks of JOY 📚🔥

Books in little libraries.
Fresh sourdough with too much butter.
Folding laundry while the baby naps (or at least pretends to).
Fantasy novels with dragons and dangerously broody heroes.
Morning coffee in the same chipped mug I won’t give up.
Crochet projects I start with wild ambition and finish… eventually. Let’s just say there is a handful of unfinished projects I have laying forgotten in my yarn buckets.

Joy doesn’t have to be loud.
Sometimes it’s a quiet page turn, a finished binding, or the smell of bread baking while the world keeps spinning. The sounds of giggles and toys being dumped on the floor, all of which spark joy and serve as remembrance of answered prayers.

Here’s to the cozy, the nerdy, the handmade, and the wildly ordinary.

What are the little moments that bring joy to your day? I’d love to know and see what you share.

Morning Stillness; When Devotion Meets the Needle

Morning Stillness: When Devotion Meets the Needle

There’s something about early mornings that feels sacred—before the rush of diapers, emails, or the ache of missing your spouse while he’s away. Just stillness, soft light, and something warm resting in my hands. The open invitation to sit and worship outwardly my hands.

Today, it was quilt in progress for a friends new baby who just arrived, and my Bible.

📖 A Quiet Start

I opened The Christian Book of Mystical Verse, its worn edges a comfort in themselves, and let the poetry of scripture and prayer settle into the quiet. The lines of poetry bringing on waves of emotions and deep reverence for The Lord.

As I sipped coffee and whispered a prayer, my eyes drifted to the quilt folded nearby, clipped and waiting. A patchwork of love, faith, and hours stolen in between mothering and making.

🧵 Hand Quilting: A Devotion in Itself

Hand quilting is slow by nature. You can’t rush it. Each stitch requires attention, presence, and intention. In that way, it mirrors the ideal walk with God: unhurried, imperfect, but deeply personal. A perfect moment to slow down and reflect.

Every fabric square holds memory—florals from thrifted treasures, warm reds like the blush of a quiet sunset, soft greens that remind me of spring on the farm. They’re stitched together not just for warmth, but as a physical prayers over our friends new baby to hold and display.

And while I sew, I pray:

• For peace in my home.

• For my husband’s safety.

• For the strength to mother with grace, even when I’m tired.

• For health and joy for all the days of her precious babies life.

• A guiding protective hand encouraging her along.

  This morning reminded me that devotion doesn’t always look like kneeling or journaling for an hour. Sometimes it looks like thread passing through fabric. Communion and silent reflection in The Lord’s presence. Like a mother’s hands working love into a blanket. Like a whispered scripture over a needle and cloth.

  My quilt isn’t perfect—but neither am I. And yet, in both, God is present. Holding, shaping, redeeming.

  🌟 An Invitation to Slow

  If you’re feeling hurried, scattered, or just weary, I invite you to find something slow and quiet today. Open a devotional. Pick up a needle. Let God meet you there—in the sacred, still places where heart meets hand.

  Because sometimes, the most beautiful prayers aren’t spoken aloud—they’re stitched.

  With love, peace, and a thread of grace,
  Mary
  Bloom and Battle