Thin Thread

On Grace that Holds us Quietly

There are weeks when I feel as if I’m hanging by a thread.

Not in the bad sense—not drowning, not despairing. Just suspended. Quietly. Lightly. Almost imperceptibly. Like I’m stitched into the day by something so small it could go unnoticed if I weren’t paying attention.

And maybe that’s the miracle: that I am paying attention.

I wonder if we’ve been trained to look for God only in the dazzling moments—in answered prayers, dramatic conversions, loud hallelujahs—and forgotten how often holiness arrives unnoticed. Not with trumpet blasts but through cracked pavements, steam on the windowpane, the kettle coming to boil. In a shaft of light on the floor where nobody stands. In the rhythm of the washing machine on its final spin. In the quiet act of making something warm, even when no one else will see it. Grace is not scarce—it’s just not always obvious. It’s scattered, soft, hidden in plain sight.

I used to think the Eucharist was the great interruption—the moment when heaven broke through and nothing was ever the same. And it is. But I’m starting to wonder whether the more radical miracle is that we don’t notice when it happens. That God keeps showing up anyway. That grace keeps threading its way into the pattern, stitch by quiet stitch, even when we’re looking somewhere else.

That is what I mean by the thin thread. The near-invisible presence of God. Not shouted from the heavens, but whispered through ordinary life. And it is holding me.

I think about the woman with the issue of blood in the Gospels. She was hanging by a thread too—twelve years of illness, twelve years of being outcast, twelve years of no one able to help. But she reached for the hem of Jesus' garment. Just the fringe. A thread. That’s all it took.

She didn’t interrupt him with words. She just touched what dangled on the edge.

I love that. I cling to that.

Because I’ve felt like that woman—standing behind the crowd, not wanting to take up too much space. Reaching not for grandeur but for something small enough to hold in my hand. Not glory. Not certainty. Just a thread.

In Benedictine life, we are taught to notice. To listen with the ear of the heart. To keep vigil, even when it seems like nothing is happening. Especially then. The Divine Office is full of threads—psalms stitched into each hour, reminders that the day is not ours alone but part of something older and wiser and much more beautiful.

Some days, I chant those psalms out of love. Some days, I chant them out of habit. And some days, I chant them just to hold the thread.

This week during None, I found myself lingering over the line: "The Lord upholds all who fall and lifts up all who are bowed down.” (Psalm 145:14)
I said it quietly. No grand conviction. Just a thread of hope in my mouth. But the thread held.

I wonder if we’ve taught people to look for God in the big things—conversion moments, radiant joy, mountaintop experiences—and forgotten to tell them that God also comes quietly, in the patience of a nurse, in the smell of toast, in the sound of a friend’s voice when they say your name like it matters.

Sometimes, the only reason I believe in God is because I keep noticing the thread.

Noticing that someone held the door open for me when I was too tired to lift my arms. Noticing that a teenager on the bus gave up their seat without being asked. Noticing that I can breathe, deeply, even after crying.

God is not absent. God is subtle.

There’s a hymn I often sing at None, when the sun is slanting low and the work of the day is nearly done:

“Lord God and Maker of all things,
Creation is upheld by you…”

I love the word upheld. Not conquered, not rescued, not even saved. Just… upheld. Like a thread that doesn’t break, no matter how much weight it’s bearing.

I think that’s what God does. Holds the world together. Holds us together. Quietly. Without a fuss.

And I think our vocation, if we dare to name it, is not always to be the great theologian or the prophetic voice or the bold reformer. Sometimes it’s simply to be the one who notices the thread. Who names it. Who thanks God for it. Who offers it, tenderly, to someone else who needs to be held too.

So here is my offering this week:
Not a revelation, not a grand idea. Just the thread. Thin, but strong.

It’s in the whispered prayers.
In the awkward cup of tea with someone you don’t know well.
In the silence that follows a funeral.
In the smile of a child who doesn’t know you’re tired.
In the wafer that breaks and the wine that warms.
In the love that will not let you go.

You don’t need to feel strong.
You don’t need to know the answers.
You just need to hold the thread.

It will hold you, too.