If – on some level, anyway – clothes make the man, who, then, makes the clothes?

Theresa Perkins does, for one.

But it’s not just any clothes she makes, and not for just any man.

In a spare-bedroom-turned-sewing-room in her modest home in Milford, Perkins crafts liturgical vestments for Catholic clergy – the elegant, historic and deeply symbolic garments priests and other church officials wear while presiding over and assisting at church services.

Perkins, 40, makes ritual garments many of us have never even heard of, with names such as chasubles, copes, dalmatics, albs and humeral veils. She has outfitted clergy in four states, her business spreading and growing the best way possible, slowly, by word of mouth and through her Web site.

A practical businesswoman, she boasts a small profit for the 2-year-old company and expects her bottom line will continue to expand. But Perkins, who attends Mass daily and says her life revolves around her faith, describes her sewing as an act of devotion. “God gave me this gift and a job to do,” she says. “I do it for him.”

Theresa Perkins has made most of her own clothes, including much of her business wardrobe, during a 20-year career as a professional secretary. Gradually, she says, the idea of starting her own company began to take shape, especially after her uncle, a priest in California, called to ask if she would be interested in making vestments for an ordination in Peru, Maine. She recalled that her mother had made vestments and, when she looked, she found the old plastic patterns rolled up in a drawer in the attic.

Since the construction of vestments doesn’t change much and is largely determined by history and tradition, there wasn’t much to do beside make some alterations in size and get sewing. The priest’s appreciation for her prompt service as well as for the quality of the garments inspired her to start Glory and Praise Vestments.

Perkins left her secretarial position and, along with her husband, Orrie, took a small business startup class through Eastern Maine Development Corp. in Bangor. “It was all very professional,” she says. “In order to apply for a loan, I had to write up a business plan. I had to pay myself and all that.” With $4,000 from the bank and a follow-up adviser from EMDC, Perkins bought herself a good new sewing machine, a selection of fabrics and a few rolls of the kind of plastic you use to wrap the foundation of your house in the winter. (“It works great,” she says of her mother’s pattern-making idea.) She also made up some labels, designed a brochure, and had a Web site created for the new company.

Then she made phone calls to churches around the state to let them know of her services, especially touting her “niche products” – vestments for the hard-to-fit clergyman.

Perkins is discreet about this aspect of her business and doesn’t want to embarrass anyone, but she admits she has fitted a priest who is under 5 feet tall, another with a 63-inch waist, and a seminary student over 6 foot 9 inches. These customers, she points out, would have had a hard time finding quality vestments from the usual sources, the catalog companies that are her main competition. Her prices start at about $75 for a simple stole and run up to about $400 for an elaborate cope.

God may have given her the gift, but Perkins looks closer to home and credits her mother, Alfreda Hanson, with developing her love of sewing.

Old Town born and raised, Hanson was divorced with five kids. She worked part time, took occasional classes, and made a little extra money by taking in sewing and alterations.

“My mother was one of those people who could look at a dress or a coat or something and – without taking it apart – make a pattern for it,” Perkins says, shaking her head in awe. “She’d make her patterns out of the rolls of plastic you use to wrap the foundation of your house in the winter.”

Some of Perkins’ happiest childhood memories are of staying up late at night, working with her mother to finish a sewing project, often clothes for her Barbie doll. “If a seam wasn’t just right, she’d make me rip it out and do it over,” she recalls. “Those tiny seams! She turned me into a perfectionist.”

Her mom, now remarried, still lives in Old Town, but no longer sews. Still, Alfreda Mower remembers well the days when she sewed for the priests, brothers and nuns at Saint Joseph’s as well as for some of the nuns on Indian Island. It was her way of tithing at a time when she could ill afford a dollars-and-cents donation to her church. “Sometimes I’d come home from work and the priests would be in my sewing room looking through my fabric,” she says with a laugh. She recalls that little Theresa, the eldest of her children, always had an interest in sewing and would set up her small sewing machine on the long table next to her mother’s. “I couldn’t get rid of her,” she says in mock complaint.

Mower says tastes have changed since she was making vestments. “At that time, they used to put more fancywork into it. Now I think the men like things plainer, no ruffles or fringes.” She prefers the simplicity, too – “All those frills took away from the real meaning. I don’t care who you are, Catholic or Protestant, whatever sect: Our Lord was very plain.”

The Roman Catholic Church decrees that “the beauty of a vestment should derive from its material and design rather than from lavish ornamentation,” and the realization of this philosophy is in every piece Theresa Perkins creates.

Although she works with a variety of fabrics, most are heavy, soft, fluid – and washable, mostly – synthetics in deep, jewel-toned colors.

Because the church dictates that priests wear specific colors on certain occasions and at given times of the worship year, there are only a handful of hues hanging on the sample rack in her sewing room. Green symbolizes life, hope and fidelity. Red is the color of passion, of suffering and martyrdom. White, of course, is for purity and innocence, but also for celebration, joy and victory. Black denotes repentance, sorrow and death. You’ll find purple, too, as well as gold and silver – but not blue, the color of Mary, which is not allowed by the Maine diocese. Subtle decorative touches appear, like a wisp of gold edging a deep red collar, or a slender line of embroidered ribbon (“galoons”) accentuating the graceful drape of a garment.

Typically, a priest will layer these garments. Over his street clothes, for example, he must wear an alb, a simple, flowing white robe with long sleeves and a high neck. At times, the alb may be all that’s needed except for the stole, a long, narrow sashlike item that may be hung around the neck or, for a deacon, draped diagonally across the chest to fasten at the hip. For a more elaborate occasion, a priest might add a chasuble, a heavy, colored, poncho-like garment. Next might come a cope, an elegant full-length capelike affair, which can also be worn without the chasuble but never without the alb.

“These priests don’t dress for coolness,” says Perkins, explaining the dressing traditions. “These outfits get hot!” Perkins also custom-designs altar cloths, chalice veils, wall hangings and other church linens.

She loves the tactile, creative aspect of her work, loves crafting the rich fabrics in the peace and good order of her home.

Mostly, though, she feels a deep sense of vocation and privilege. While she’s at work on a piece, she says, “I know it’ll be used during the Mass, during the consecration of the Eucharist, in the full presence of God. And I think, ‘Who am I, this little person in Milford, Maine, making vestments for the Church?’ I feel so honored to be able to do this. I thank God every day.”

Her Web site is www.gloryandpraisevestments.com.