The Scarlet Thread (58 page)

make love to you again without wondering if I’m killing you in

the process?”

“Oh, Alex,” she whispered, putting her hand against his chest.

She felt his heart pick up speed; her own matched the rhythm.

He took her hand and removed it from him. “I almost didn’t

tell you,” he said hoarsely, “but you’ve got a right to know. It’s

something else you’re going to need to think about before you

make any decisions, isn’t it?” He moved away from her.

She knew he was heading for the door. “Alex . . .”

“I’ll call you,” he said hoarsely. Without looking back, he

opened the door and went out.

It has been three years since I wrote anything in

this journal.

We have spent our evenings reading Aunt Martha’s Bible. I found out who killed our beloved

Koxoenis and it near broke my heart. I might

never have known had I not noticed the amethyst

cross Charlotte Burrell wore to the Christmas

gathering. My heart stopped when I saw it

around her neck, and my throat closed so tight

I did not think I could draw breath let alone

speak. I was so full of anger I wanted to tear that

necklace from her throat, but You held me from

it. She asked me what was wrong. Soon as she

did I knew I could speak.

I did not ask her about the cross. Instead,

I did what You set in my mind. I told her about

our first winter in California and how we would

4 4 5

the kindness of a Pomo Indian named Koxoenis.

Lester joined us as I told Charlotte about our

dear friend. I told them how Koxoenis gave us

meat and taught us how to find food. I told them

how he welcomed Joshua into his own home

and village and taught him how to make fish

traps and build a shelter that kept us dry and

warm through the cold, wet winter months.

I said he was as near an example of God’s love

as I had ever seen in my life and a true answer

to a prayer I had said in desperation. I told them

the only gift I was ever able to give him was an

amethyst cross on a gold chain exactly like the

one Charlotte was wearing.

Lester looked sick. His face got all white and

blotchy. I thought he was going to die right

there on the spot. He said he was sorry. He said

when he saw the Indian with his bow and

arrows, he thought he was a threat and shot him.

He took the cross because he thought Koxoenis

must have killed a white settler and stolen it.

Charlotte was too ashamed to say anything. She

gave the necklace back to me and could not say

a word.

I grieve now more for Lester and Charlotte

than Koxoenis. They will live with this on their

hearts for years to come. I told them I forgive

them and You do, too. But I don’t know that it

4 4 6

made them feel any the better for taking an innocent man’s life.

Oh, Lord, how many things I have done without thinking of the cost to others.

Ham has a son of his own now. I have never seen

a man so taken with a child. He sits by the crib

and watches Micah, sometimes for an hour or

more. When Micah awakens at night, Ham

brings him to bed and watches me nurse him. It is

disconcerting at times. He said just last night how

blessed a woman is. When I asked him why, he

said a woman gets to feel a child grow inside her

and, once the babe is born, she provides sustenance with her own body. No man can ever experience that.

James never in all his days talked this way.

What manner of man have you given me, Lord?

I never thought I would love a man so much my

heart would break every time I looked at him.

And it is so. I fell in love with James the first time

I saw him, yet it is this fierce and rugged man

who has grown to be a part of me. I have wondered about it much of late. I think it is because

James withheld a part of himself. Kavanaugh

gives everything. James yearned for more than

I could give. Kavanaugh is so filled up with love,

it pours out of him onto me and my children.

4 4 7

Kavanaugh would die for us. James touched me

and I burned. When Kavanaugh touches me, I see

heaven.

Lord, may I be a proper wife for him. He

deserves better.

The crops came in bountiful. As is everything.

I told Ham I am in a family way again. He was

distressed at first and asked if it was good for me

to be having another baby this soon. I could not

help but laugh. It is a little late to be worrying

about such things.

Lord, I thank You. And if You do not mind me

asking, I would like a girl this time.

Dear Lord, sometimes my heart swells so much

with love for You it closes my throat up with

pain. I am not much as children go, I know. I am

not like Mama or Aunt Martha.

Mama used to pray thank You prayers in the

meadows and sing to You. She said there are

earth psalms all around us singing praises to You

and it is nice to join in. Since I am not much good

at singing, I hope you will understand I am grateful for so many things.

Tears, a balm, soothing and cleansing. Cups, of

plenty and sorrow. Cold to make me appreciate

warmth. Manure, though I do not know if you

4 4 8

will like me saying so. But Lord, when spread

over turned ground where new seeds have been

planted, it brings forth growth. Like my troubles

in my life, Lord. It was Affliction and Distress

that made me come to You and now I do not ever

want to leave.

I am thankful for the pieces of fabric the quilting club gave me—woven and designed like You

wove and designed me in my mother’s womb.

Like you designed my children. I am grateful for

our new fireplace that gives us warmth, light

drawing each of us together.

Dust! The small particles dance on the light.

Would that I could dance like that for You in

broad daylight instead of going off in the woods

because the last time I did it my children thought

I was out of my head.

I am glad for the candles so I can see to write.

You are my lamp, Lord, lighting my way out of

darkness. I am thankful for the gold nuggets

Kavanaugh brought home yesterday, pure and soft

the way my heart should be. Lord, make me so.

Thank You for the Good Water we have. It

quenches my body’s thirst and reminds me that

You are Living Water for my soul.

Even the Air I breathe, Jesus. I cannot see it,

but it is there, moving and necessary to keep me

alive. Like You. And the Flowers. I have never

seen so many colors and kinds splashed across the

4 4 9

You because they make me yearn for sunlight.

Seeds show me death and resurrection.

I do not know if You approve of me saying this,

Lord, but I am grateful for the way I feel when

Kavanaugh knows me. Even with James I never

felt this explosion of fire and light inside me like

a rain of stars.

Is all this but a hint of what it will be like to be

in full communion with You, Jesus? Do You

show us the part so that we yearn for the Whole?

I remember Aunt Martha reading to me once that

to look upon the face of God would bring death.

Still, sometimes every bit of me yearns to be in

Heaven with You all the while I still want to stay

here and live to be an old dottering woman seeing

her children and grandchildren around her. I do

not understand all that is changing inside me.

Sierra held the worn journal tenderly, tears streaming down her

face. Mary Kathryn’s beautiful letter to God was the last entry in

her journal. As she had turned the last page, she’d found an envelope carefully glued inside the back binder. Inside it was a single

sheet of paper. She recognized her mother’s clear, neat script.

Dear Sierra,

We have no other journals by Mary Kathryn

McMurray in our possession. If there were others after it,

I’m sorry to say they were lost or passed along to another

4 5 0

branch of the family with whom we have no contact. We

do know through family records that Mary Kathryn and

Hamlet Bogan Kavanaugh had eight children together

and lived to a healthy old age. What records we do have

come down to us through your father’s ancestor, America

Farr, Mary Kathryn’s last child by James Addison

Farr. James was your great-great-great grandfather.

Mike has all the family papers if you are interested in

looking at the details.

I love you,

Mom

P.S. I went through everything carefully, but could

find no further mention of Joshua.

4 5 1

27

S I E R R A S A T S T A R I N G A T M A R Y K A T H R Y N ’ S

quilt. Alex hadn’t called in several days. She knew he was giving

her time to digest what he’d told her. She
had
thought about it. She

had taken a couple of days off work to be by herself in order to

think things through. While the children had been in school, she

had walked through the mall and sat at the coffee shop. Later, she

sat in her breakfast nook, the sun streaming in through the window, and read her Bible and prayed. No solutions came.

I wish you would put answers in neon signs, Lord. What am I supposed to
do?

When she’d crawled into bed earlier, she couldn’t sleep, so

now she sat on the couch and stared up at Mary Kathryn

McMurray’s quilt.

4 5 3

him back?

Sierra’s life had changed so much. She was happy with the

changes, comfortable with them. Alex would only turn her life

upside down again, not to mention the risks involved in trying to

make their marriage work. She wasn’t as worried about HIV as

Alex was. She was more worried about the emotional risks, the

fears inherent in loving him again the way she once did. Alex had

been the center of her universe.

Jesus, you are my center now. Is Alex going to be happy with the

changes in me?

They had barely brushed the subject of faith during their long

evening discussions. Truly, she had been afraid to broach the

subject with him. Church attendance had never been part of

their routine other than to attend Mass with his parents on special occasions. Did Alex understand how important Jesus was to

her now, that she needed the Lord more than she needed him?

She
wanted
Alex. She wanted him to share her life completely. If

she knew Christ had no place in his life, how could she reconcile

with him without compromising her new faith?

I lived with him thirteen years, Lord, and I don’t know what he believes.

Truth to tell, I don’t know much about the inner workings of his heart. It

was always my own that mattered.

Oh, God, why are we so proud and foolish? We don’t listen until we’re

faced with disaster, and then we come crying home to you, wanting you to

fix us! I love him, Father, but is this kind of love enough to make our

marriage work? We have so little in common. I never realized until now.

We come from different cultures, different social backgrounds, different

religions. He’s brilliant and I’m average. He graduated from college with

honors, and I managed to get out of high school and take a few business

courses. He likes ultramodern, and I like antiques and sunflowers and

lace. Lord, he likes ’70s music, and I’m sick to death of it. When I think

about all of this, my head reels. I wonder how we ever lasted as long as we

4 5 4