She put her mug down and stood up. “I forgive you, Alex.”
He looked at her, his eyes moist. “I knew that when you said you wanted to talk, but I can’t let go of it. I said vows, querida. It doesn’t matter that they were in Reno and not in a church. I could have been saying them in a parking lot and I still would’ve known I was speaking before God. The last thing I ever thought I’d do was commit adultery. And then I did. I never thought I’d be capable of hurting you. And then I did that, too. Deliberately. Every chance I got.”
She wanted to put her arms around him, but he moved away slightly, putting distance between them. He was gripped with guilt. It was eating at him. She knew that look. She also knew he wanted to tell her something—something she wasn’t going to like. The muscles in her stomach tightened.
No more, Lord. Please, no more.
“Father O’Shea asked if I’d had a blood test.”
Sierra could feel the blood draining from her face. She blinked.
“Yeah, you look exactly the way I felt,” he said bleakly. “That aspect never occurred to me, either. Not until a celibate priest brought it up. I called Elizabeth and asked some blunt questions. She wasn’t very happy about them, but she was honest. I knew I wasn’t her first. But I didn’t know how many. Do you know what I’m saying, Sierra? Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“She’s been with five other men, one in high school, two during college, one afterward, and the guy she’s marrying. She said she didn’t think there was a chance any of them were HIV-positive, but there’s no way of knowing, is there?” His eyes were haunted. “I can’t stop thinking about it.” His eyes filled. “You came to me a virgin. You never even kissed another guy before me.”
“Are you telling me you’re—?” She couldn’t finish the question.
“No. I’ve been tested four times over the past few months. All negative, but who knows? Are we hearing the truth about this thing?” He came to her and cupped her face. As he stroked her cheeks, his eyes welled with tears and torment. “How do I ever 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 surely have starved to death had it not been for 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 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. James risked everything to reach his dream. 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 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 hillsides. Even Gray Skies are a good thing from 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 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.
Chapter 27
Sierra sat staring at Mary Kathryn’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.
What would you do, Mary Kathryn? Shoot him? Forgive him and take 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 seventies 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 did. Great sex. Was that it? Was it passion for one another that held us together, Lord?
A flush ran up her cheeks, and she caught her thoughts. Was it proper to talk with Jesus about such things? If not, she hoped He would forgive her, but there was no one else she could go to, no one who would understand her from the inside out. Who else could do that but the One who created her?
As she prayed and talked with God, she struggled with all the questions. Had she caused her own downfall by living in a fantasy world, never being willing to see who Alex really was? Was that why their marriage had worked as long as it had?
Was that it, Lord? I still ache when I see him. I’m a Christian now, and I still ache for him. I love You, Jesus. Everything’s changed, not the least of which is me. And still I love him.
Lord, what do I do? What’s Your will for me in all this?
She leaned her head back against the sofa and looked up at the quilt.
And then it dawned on her. A flash of insight from out of nowhere, from within her. And with it, God’s quiet loving voice.
Be still, beloved. And know that I am God.
She blinked, amazed, overwhelmed. It was right there before her eyes, only she had been blind to it. The message her mother had said would come had finally arrived. Sitting forward slowly, Sierra studied the quilt—and understood.
“One day it will come to you like a star bursting in the heavens. And what a day that will be!”
Sierra stood and went to the quilt, smiling in wonder, her fingers tracing the scarlet thread that held all the pieces together and made them a whole incredibly beautiful work of art. “Oh, Lord . . . ,” she whispered brokenly. How could she have been so blind?
Who am I, beloved?
“You are God. Almighty God.”
Sierra wept with joy as enlightenment sang in her very blood.
Responding to an impulse, she called Alex.
“Sierra,” he said hoarsely. “What’s wrong, querida?”
She had awakened him. Glancing at the kitchen wall clock, she grimaced. She hadn’t even thought about the time. “Nothing. The children are fine. I’m fine.”
“Something’s happened. What is it?”
Should she tell him to go back to sleep? Her heart was racing, her soul singing praises to the Lord. “Can you come over?”
“Sí.” He didn’t even ask what time it was. After she hung up, she raked her hands through her hair. One fifteen in the morning! What must he be thinking? Embarrassed, she called him back to apologize and tell him her discovery could wait until morning.
Maybe it should wait until she’d had more time to think. Would he understand if she even tried to explain now in the feverish excitement of discovery? Doubts crept in. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe she was getting overemotional. Maybe her imagination was running rampant.
O Lord. O Lord.
Alex didn’t answer. Before she hung up, there was a tap on the door.
Taking a deep breath, Sierra opened it. Her heart turned over at the sight of her husband. He had pulled on his old sweats and stood barefoot, his dark hair disheveled. He looked worried.
“I’m sorry, Alex. I didn’t even look to see what time it was.”
“I’m awake now,” he said coming inside.
“You’ll think I’m crazy, but there’s something I want to show you.”
O God, let him see. Let him understand. Help us! Be the glue that holds us together this time.
Alex followed her into the living ro
om, looking around for something out of place. No earthquake had happened. No ceiling falling in on her. Nothing unusual. He looked at her, bemused, questioning.
She looked up at the quilt. “The question’s never been whether, but when,” she said, more to herself than to him.
“When what?”
She smiled at him. “It says that every knee will bow and every tongue will confess that Jesus Christ is Lord. So the question is do we relinquish everything to the Lord, or do we make Him strip us bare before we understand He’s in control.”
Alex shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, querida.”
“Sit down with me, please, Alex. I have something very important to ask you.” She turned to face him as they sat together on the couch. “This is the most important question I’ll ever ask you. Who is Jesus to you?”
Surprised, he searched her eyes. “God the Son, Creator, Father, Savior.”
Her eyes welled with thankful tears. “So you do believe.”
“Sí, amor mío. Since I was a little boy. I never wanted to make an issue of it with you. Your family . . . mine . . . imposible . . . yo comprendo. And then, when I walked away from you, I figured I’d walked away from Him as well. I didn’t think He would forgive me, that He could—”
His voice broke, and Sierra felt her throat tighten with tears at the depth of his despair. He met her eyes. “But He has, querida. Dennis helped me see that. God has forgiven me—He has restored me to Himself. And that’s why I won’t give up on us. If He can forgive, He can help us to do the same.”
Relief swept through her, and joy as well. She looked up at the quilt. “Almighty God, Creator, Master. He’s the Alpha and Omega. Mary Kathryn McMurray came to understand. She made that quilt so others would see as well. I was just so blind.”
Oh, the wonder of it all.
Alex touched her, a mere brush of his fingers, tentative, comforting. “Why are you crying?”
The Scarlet Thread Page 35
