I’ve got to lose him. I’ve got to get off the trail.
Behind her she heard Jorge shouting her name. The path was uneven, and several times she came close to tripping.
Give me hind’s feet on high places, Lord.
She came to another fork. There was a small ditch beside the trail, and the fork crossed over it. She took the fork to the right and jumped over the ditch. The snow had started to fall, and she had to slow down to make her way.
Faintly in the distance she heard Jorge shout her name. She had to slow to a walk in the thicker brush. The bushes leaned over the trail and grabbed at her jacket. The air was freezing, and her hands were starting to get numb.
She had to let her eyes adjust so she could see the reflection of the faint light off the packed dirt of the trail. She went slowly, deeper and deeper into the woods.
A big hollow stump appeared beside the trail like a silent man. Her heart jumped into her throat. She took a deep breath and kept going as quickly as she could. The woods grew thicker and darker around her until she could barely see. She stumbled forward blindly, feeling for the edge of the path with her feet. Every few minutes the streaming clouds opened and allowed the moon to light the way ahead. Then at last they closed completely, and the snow began to fall, soft and thick. Jenny stopped and listened. Jorge’s voice had died away, and now the woods were silent around her. She heard a flapping sound, and a dark shape passed close by her with a screech. Jenny jumped and took another deep breath. It was only an owl.
Even though the night air was freezing, Jenny was covered with sweat. Her face felt flushed as she stared into the darkness, trying to see the trail ahead of her. A root caught at her foot, and she went down on one knee. She had to find a place to hide. She moved forward again, taking one step and then another. The snow was falling faster. She took one more step, and when she put her foot down, nothing was there. She pitched forward and fell down into the darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Blood
JERUSHA LOOKED DOWN at the Rose of Sharon quilt with satisfaction. The place where she had sewn in the new batting was barely visible. She felt as though she were back at the beginning of an incredible journey, one that had taken her from darkness to hope, from despair to faith, from pride to dependence. As she worked she spoke aloud.
“When I made this quilt, I was focused on myself—my pain, my grief, my loss. When You sent me Jenny to restore what I lost in Jenna, I only received the blessing for me. It didn’t occur to me that You had given me to Jenny as a blessing and a hope to her.”
Jerusha thought about the dreams and nightmares that had plagued Jenny all her life. Often in the early days, when Jerusha had awakened to the sound of her adopted daughter screaming in the night, she had been concerned. But Jenny had been so volatile as a child that as the years passed, Jerusha had come to discount the dreams as just a part of her daughter’s temperament. Now she saw that the dreams were born of some terrible event, something that had torn Jenny inside.
Like the torn batting in the quilt.
Jerusha examined the quilt again. She noticed all the colored pieces that were either torn or missing, and she was glad she had saved the original silk material. The quilt had hardly been used, so there were no worn places, but the seam where she had torn open the corner was frayed, and the cream-colored cotton backing had also frayed where she pulled the seam apart.
As she examined the stitching, she recalled how her tiny, even stitches had amazed her grandmother. Most quilters would use about seventy thousand stitches on a quilt. Jerusha had used more than ninety thousand in her first complete quilt when she was eleven years old. She remembered her grandmother’s words as she looked over the work.
“Ja, your stitch is so small and even,” said her grandmother. “It is as though you have been quilting all your life.”
Her thoughts flew back to the wonderful days when she had learned the art of quilting from her grandmother. Those had been the happiest days of her childhood, and she could hear Grossmudder Hannah’s voice speaking gently to her as she helped cut the pieces for a star quilt, the first Jerusha had been allowed to work on. She remembered watching as her grandmother cut the chosen pieces of fabric into perfectly matching parts.
“If the quilt is going to be even and symmetrical, the pieces must be true,” she said.
She let Jerusha try her hand, and even on her first try Jerusha cut the pieces straight and perfect.
“Ja, das is gutte,” Grandmother said. “You will be a fine quilt maker, my girl.”
Once the pieces were cut correctly, Grossmudder had pieced them together with pinpoint accuracy.
“If the quilt is not aligned properly, even in just one small part, the whole thing will look off-balance and might pucker,” she told Jerusha. “If the design is to be even and pleasing to the eye, each individual piece of fabric must be stitched together just right. You must trust your own eye and sewing skills for measurement and accuracy. Der Schöpfer-Gott, the Creator, has not given this gift to every quilter.”
As the memories flooded over her, Jerusha began to see something she had never noticed before. For her, the completed quilt had always been the purpose for her life, and the process of making the quilt had only been a means to an end. Now she began to see that the process was everything, and the finished quilt was only the revealing of the work that had been put into the quilt.
“You are the Master Creator, Lord, and You put each life together the same way my grandmother made a quilt. You cut each piece that fits into the fabric of our lives, and You stitch them together perfectly. You always have a plan for each of us. And You planned each part of our lives to fit together perfectly.”
Jerusha began to see the correlation. Each piece of a life had to be laid in perfectly, and if the pieces were uneven or not stitched together properly, the result would not fulfill the Creator’s purpose for that life.
Jerusha remembered something Reuben had taught her. They had visited a neighbor’s farm one day and watched as the men helped their neighbor tear down the framing of what was to be a new barn and start over.
“Why are they tearing the barn down?” she had asked.
“Brother King made a mistake when he laid the foundation,” Reuben said. “It wasn’t level and true. It was pointed out to him when the first wall went up, and the men had a great deal of difficulty plumbing it up. When a foundation isn’t laid properly and you build on it, everything in nature, even gravity itself, conspires to drag that wall down. But if the foundation is true, then when you build on it, gravity pulls the wall straight down onto the foundation, and it will stand for years, supporting itself.”
She had wondered about Reuben’s words that day without really understanding, but now as she looked at the quilt, they became clear. Everything in Jenny’s life had been built on a poor foundation, so even nature had worked against her, robbing her of peace and joy and leaving her with a sense of incompleteness.
That is what happened to Jenny. The foundation of her life wasn’t laid in straight and true, and she has been struggling to build on that poor foundation.
Jerusha went back to the quilt and began working on the corner stitching. She had used cotton thread on this part of the quilt because it was kinder to the fabric. She got out a number ten needle and a leather thimble. She had used the thimble since she was a girl. It was her favorite, and as she used it over the years, she had worn the dimples down in such a way that it allowed her absolute control of the needle. The thimble was open on the end so that she didn’t perspire inside it and cause it to stick to her finger.
She used a traditional rocking stitch that she had modified slightly so that she sewed toward herself instead of from left to right. That way she could see the stitching as she worked. Carefully she began to stitch the torn corner closed. Where a small piece of the backing was missing, she carefully patched in a new piece by sewing it over the frayed area. She stitched exactly where she had stitched before
and buried the knot in the material so that it was invisible. After she finished, she examined the seams and stitching throughout the quilt for any other areas she could repair quickly.
After a few hours of work, she heard a knock on her door. Curious as to who might be visiting at this hour, she went to the door and opened it. Hank Lowenstein was standing there.
“Hello, Jerusha,” Hank said. “I just came over to tell you that Reuben called. He asked me to tell you that he went with Bobby to find Jenny. They had to fly over to Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. I didn’t know Jenny was gone, so the message is a little cryptic to me. Is there anything I can do?”
Jerusha felt a cold fear try to creep into her heart. She whispered a silent prayer and then said, “Jenny’s in trouble, Hank. I can’t tell you all the details, but I would certainly appreciate your prayers. Reuben will probably try to stay in touch by calling your phone. I hope it’s not a bother.”
“Bother! Why, Jerusha, you know we love Jenny. Reuben can call anytime day or night, and we’ll come over and let you know what’s happening. And we’ll be praying too.”
“Thank you, Hank,” Jerusha said. “I certainly appreciate it. And we know that you love Jenny. Thank you for that also.”
Hank tipped his old worn baseball cap and went back over the little bridge that crossed the creek between the Springer farm and the Lowenstein place. Jerusha watched him go with a sick feeling in her heart. Lord, keep Your hand on Reuben and Bobby. Don’t let them be hurt. And please let them find Jenny.
Jerusha walked back to the sewing table and stared at the quilt. Her hands were trembling, but she thought, I can’t help Jenny by worrying. I’ve got to keep occupied so I can keep my mind busy. She sat down at the table and picked up the quilt. And then the deep, peaceful voice spoke to her spirit again.
I have things to show You, Jerusha—things that will help Jenny, but they will help you also. All of your life, you have been in My hand, and yet You still don’t really understand Me. The quilt is the key to understanding.
The revelation came with such startling clarity that Jerusha gasped. She nodded and looked over the quilt one more time. The next parts she had to repair were the torn rose petals. She pulled out the piece of red silk and laid it on the table. Then she carefully laid a piece of paper over one of the complete petals and traced the shape. It needed to be exactly the same. She took her scissors and cut out the pattern. Then she laid it on the red silk and began to trace out the five petals she needed to replace the torn ones on the quilt. As she did she spoke out loud again.
“Lord, I know You’re speaking to me through the quilt, but I don’t understand yet. How does fixing the quilt show me how to help Jenny? Even though it’s repaired, the quilt is not the same as it was when I first made it. No matter how skillfully I repair it, it has still been damaged.”
Again the still, small voice came to her. The red silk, Jerusha—what does it represent?
“I always felt that the red silk was like blood, even Your blood, the precious blood of Christ. But what does that mean?”
Everyone in this world has been damaged, Jerusha. Since that moment when My son Adam decided to go his own way, humans have been damaged and useless to My purpose.
“Dead in their trespasses and sin?” Jerusha asked.
Yes, Jerusha, all men are dead in their sin. But I, in mercy and grace, so loved the world I created that I…
“You sent Your Son, Jesus.”
Yes, and what did He do, Jerusha?
Suddenly the thing that the Lord was showing her became clear, like a bolt of lightning into her mind. “He shed his blood!”
Yes, and when He did, what happened, dochter?
“All things were made new. The old creation passed away, and a new creation was born.”
In that moment of clarity, Jerusha’s heart filled to overflowing with the wisdom and love of her God. She picked up the piece of red silk, the petal of the Rose of Sharon quilt, and she stared at the beautiful deep red color.
Like a rose…or the blood of Christ.
Again the peaceful voice came. Jerusha, how are you going to repair the torn petals? Are you going to take the old ones away and put new ones in?
“No, Lord, I’m going to put the new piece right on top of the old one and sew it on using the same stitch I used before.”
So the new piece will…will what, Jerusha?
“The new piece will completely cover the old one and hide all the torn places and the imperfections of the ruined piece.”
So you are not going to remove it. You are going to…
“I’m going to cover it, Lord. But what…?”
And then like the sun rising over the eastern hills on a quiet spring morning, the answer came.
“Oh! All my sins and imperfections and all of Jenny’s, they are… they are covered.”
By what, Jerusha?
“Oh my Lord, by Your blood…by Your blood!”
And then Jerusha knew the answer, and she understood for the first time in her life that the same power that had raised Christ from the dead was in her, and in Reuben, and in Jenny. And the blood that was shed to release that power into the world was fully and absolutely capable of healing her daughter’s life and making Jenny whole and complete. The wonderful revelation overpowered her. Jerusha put her head down on the table and began to sob. And as she did, a great weight was lifted from her, and the blood of her Savior began its marvelous work.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Astray
SLOWLY JENNY RETURNED TO CONSCIOUSNESS. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. She tried to think, and then it started to come back to her. She had been running through the woods. The branches were grabbing at her face, and she couldn’t see where she was going. She tried to remember why she had been running. Then it all came back in a rush. Jorge—she was running from Jorge! She was in the cabin and then she got away.
She put her hand out into the darkness and began to grope around her, trying to discover where she was. She remembered stepping off into space and falling and then landing in something, a tree or a bush that broke her fall by snagging her with the branches. She had hung there for a moment, and then the branches broke under her weight, and she had fallen and rolled into something hard. And then there had been blackness.
Now, awake, she could see that she was at the bottom of a hill or cliff. The ground beneath her was hard and uneven, full of rounded objects that she guessed were stones. She felt between them with her hands. They were surrounded by something smooth and cold. It was sand. The stones were ice cold and covered with snow. She became aware of the sound of running water a few feet away. Then she knew that she was lying at the edge of a creek and that she must have fallen down into a ravine or a gully.
She was laying partway on a large rock, and as she shifted her weight, she moved and slipped down the side. Her body jerked spasmodically, and an excruciating pain from her leg made her cry out. Very slowly she shifted herself again, fighting the pain, until she was sitting propped against the rock. The snow had stopped, and the dark clouds that had covered the pale moon began to break up. She had guessed correctly—she was lying in a creek bed filled with different-sized stones that stood up out of the sand like snow-covered igloos. The creek was at a very low stage, and the bed was exposed about ten feet on either side of the sluggish water flowing down the center.
She turned her head gingerly to look around. Behind her a steep bank rose up into the darkness. She couldn’t see all the way up, but she imagined it was about fifty feet to the top. She remembered when Jorge had let her out of the car trunk and she had looked down into the ravine on the other side of the road. It had seemed very deep, and the wall below her went almost straight down.
She turned her head back. Across the creek, the ravine widened out, and there seemed to be an area filled with brush and trees between the creek and where the opposite wall of the ravine rose up into the darkness. To the right, the stream came flowing down out of t
he darkness. To her left, it disappeared around a corner.
The snow clouds streamed by above her, and slowly the sky continued to clear, letting light filter down into the blackness around her. Now she could see a flat place along the other side of the creek. It reflected the light more than the ground beside it, and she guessed that it was a trail. The water was flowing from her right so she knew that downhill was to her left.
That’s the way out. I’ve got to get across the creek and go down that trail.
The throbbing pain in her leg was becoming more intense. She ached all over, but just where else she was injured was unclear. She began to slowly explore her face and head with the tips of her fingers. Something sticky covered the side of her head above her right ear. Blood.
Her fingers moved down to her shoulders. Her left shoulder was sore, but she could move her arm, and she wiggled her fingers to make sure they weren’t broken. She worked her way down to her hips and legs. Her left hip was very sore. She struggled to sit further up so she could reach her legs, and once more a bolt of pain shot up her left leg. Gently she pulled her knees up, and the pain from her ankle almost made her scream.
She reached down and carefully felt her anklebones. There was a large lump on the side of her ankle right at the bone, and her foot was twisted strangely. At first she thought it was broken, but then she remembered something that had happened to her when she was a little girl. Running through the field behind her house, she had stepped into a hole and twisted her ankle terribly. It had looked just like it did now. Her Papa had come running when he heard her cries and had gently taken her ankle in his strong hands.
“It’s not broken, dochter,” he said, “but it is dislocated. I’m going to have to pull it hard to make it pop back in. It will hurt very badly, but I must do it.”
Jenny stuck out her chin and clenched her fists. “Okay, Papa, I’m ready.”
The Road Home Page 18
