The Art of Tinking: Repairing What Has Been Undone

Unknitting is the process of carefully undoing stitches, one at a time, to correct a mistake in a knitting project. Knitters also call it “tinking,” which is my preferred word - because apparently we enjoy making up our own vocabulary.

Recently, I was finally able to unbox my yarn and knitting needles and start a new project. I tend to turn to knitting when life gets especially busy and I can't seem to find a day off. There is something wonderfully grounding about having a project that can travel with me: something to work on while waiting for the kids, listening during meetings, or stealing a few quiet moments for myself.

I hadn't picked up my needles in more than six months. Packing, moving, unpacking, and settling into a new home have a way of putting our creative ambitions on hold. But now, my yarn is out, my needles are clicking, and I'm working on a celebration quilt made up of twenty blocks using worsted-weight yarn I already had in my stash. Twenty blocks. One at a time. (Eeks!)

As I was finishing the first block, I noticed something. Somewhere in the previous row, I had skipped a stitch. And because this particular block has a very specific flying geese pattern, that one little mistake was going to throw off the whole thing.

I sat and stared at it for several minutes.

Earlier in the same block, I had messed up the seed stitch pattern. I didn't notice until four rows later, and by then I had decided to leave it. It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't going to ruin the project. I could live with it.

But this mistake? Right at the end of the block? Somehow, this one got to me.

I was at a crossroads. Do I keep going and pretend I don't see it? Do I accept the imperfection? Or do I go backward, carefully undoing the stitches until I reach the place where things went wrong?

I chose to unknit.

And as I sat there carefully pulling out stitch after stitch, I started thinking about how much this resembles the work we are facing in our country following yesterday's midterm election.

There is a difference between recognizing that something has gone wrong and actually doing the work to repair it.

Elections matter. They matter enormously. They can change leadership, shift priorities, restore accountability, and create opportunities to move in a different direction. They can open doors that have been firmly shut and give people hope that perhaps we are finally turning a corner.

But an election cannot, by itself, undo the harm that has already been done.

The damage caused by inhumane and unjust systems doesn't simply disappear because the political winds have shifted. The policies that have separated families, targeted vulnerable communities, undermined human dignity, restricted access to healthcare, threatened the rights of LGBTQIA+ people, and made neighbors feel unsafe in their own communities leave marks.

People carry those marks.

Children remember what it felt like to be afraid. Families remember being separated. Communities remember being targeted. People who have spent years fighting for their dignity and safety don't suddenly feel secure because a new election brings a different possibility.

And unlike a knitting project, we cannot simply pull out the last few rows and start again.

There are scars in the wake of destruction. There are relationships that need rebuilding, trust that must be earned, and people who need more than promises that things will get better. Some damage cannot be completely undone. Some things will never look exactly the way they did before.

That doesn't mean we don't try.

In fact, I think that's where the real work begins.

When I unknit my little section of yarn, I have to be patient. I can't yank on it or rush through the process. If I pull too hard, I risk losing stitches altogether. I have to find the mistake, carefully work backward, and make sure I haven't created another problem in the process.

Repairing the harm caused by unjust systems requires that same kind of intentionality. It means listening to the people who have been hurt rather than deciding for them what healing should look like. It means acknowledging what happened instead of pretending it wasn't that bad. It means changing the policies, practices, and structures that allowed the harm to happen in the first place.

And it means understanding that those who benefited from the old pattern don't get to decide when everyone else should be ready to move on.

As people of faith, we have a particular responsibility in this work. Jesus didn't spend his ministry protecting the comfort of the powerful or preserving systems that kept people on the margins. Again and again, Jesus interrupted the established pattern. He welcomed people who had been excluded, challenged those who used religion to justify injustice, and reminded people that love of neighbor was not optional.

The work of following Jesus has never been simply about admiring a better pattern. It is about helping create one.

I don't know exactly what the next chapter of our country's story will look like. Yesterday's election may have opened some doors, and there is room to celebrate that possibility. There is room to breathe, to hope, and perhaps even to feel a little lighter.

But we cannot confuse a political turning point with the completion of the work.

There are stitches to repair. There are people to stand alongside. There are systems that need more than a little adjustment. And there are places where we will need to go much farther back than we ever imagined in order to begin again.

I am still working on that first block of my celebration quilt. Twenty blocks to go. I suspect there will be more mistakes, more unknitting, and probably a little frogging along the way.

But I keep picking up my needles.

Maybe that's the lesson for this moment, too. We don't give up on the work because the pattern has been damaged. We don't pretend the mistakes aren't there. And we don't assume that simply moving forward will somehow make everything right.

Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is stop, look carefully at what has happened, and begin the patient work of unknitting.

One stitch at a time.

Because the goal isn't simply to get back to where we were. It's to create something more beautiful, more inclusive, more compassionate, and more whole than what we had before.

And that, I think, is why tinking is worth the work.