A Quilt for Jenna

by Patrick E. Craig

  “But Grossmudder, I don’t know what to do,” she cried aloud. “I’m so tired. I can’t help her. I just want to go to sleep. It’s the easiest way.”

  “Jerusha, you must not sleep. This little girl has a life to live, and you have been sent to help her. You must get her to safety. Think, girl, think!”

  Then Jerusha remembered. The cabin—the Jepsons’ cabin! Reuben and I came here that Sunday before he left. He wanted to explain to me, he tried to make me see...

  If she had her bearings right, the Jepsons’ cabin was just through the woods about a quarter of a mile. They had homesteaded the property years before but lost their money in the crash of 1929. They had abandoned the place and moved away, and the old cabin had remained empty in the woods, a testament to broken dreams and hope deferred. Jerusha and the other children of the village had often come to Jepsons’ Pond when they were young. She knew this place. Some of the youngsters had used the cabin from time to time as a trysting place or a hangout, but mostly it stood alone, falling slowly into disrepair, boarded up and empty.

  If I can get this child to the cabin we might survive, but she looks so cold. I must find a way to keep her warm. Then she remembered her grandmother’s words.

  “You’re too proud, Jerusha. This gift is not for you, but for those you can bless with your quilts. It’s God working through you to touch others. It’s not to be held for yourself.”

  Suddenly she found a battle raging inside her, like two different voices—one arrogant, one gentle.

  “You can’t use the quilt. That’s Jenna’s quilt, and it’s your ticket out of this miserable life,” said the arrogant voice.

  “It’s the only way to save this child!” said the gentle voice. “You must use it.”

  “If you do you’ll remain in Apple Creek forever. You’ll never get out,” said the arrogant voice.

  “Jerusha, this gift you’ve been given is to bless others. You can’t bring Jenna back, and you can’t run away from who you are. You must face your pain and go on with your life,” said the gentle voice.

  Suddenly a picture came to Jerusha’s mind. She was ten years old, lying in the hayloft and singing the Loblied with all her heart. She heard her father’s voice call up to her; like the voice of God speaking to her.

  “Kumme, dochter, there is work to be done.”

  Then she knew who the two voices were.

  The arrogant voice is what I’ve become, shriveled up and bitter inside my heart. I’ve let what’s happened to me plant a seed inside me that has borne terrible fruit in my life. The gentle voice is who I was, praising God and listening to the voice of my father. What have I become? I’m lost, lost like this little girl, alone in the storm with no one to save me.

  Then Jerusha knew what she must do. She shook the little girl awake and spoke to her clearly and slowly so she would understand.

  “I have to go for a while, little one,” she said softly.

  The little girl’s eyes opened wide in fear. “Don’t leave me,” she cried. “The bad man will get me! Please don’t go!”

  “I have to go, my darling,” said Jerusha. “I must get you out of the storm, but I need something warmer to wrap you in. I have to go back to my car to get it. I won’t be long. I’ll wrap you up as best as I can with these clothes, and I’ll come back soon. Don’t be afraid.”

  The little girl looked into Jerusha’s eyes, and the fear went out of her face. Her little hand reached up and softly stroked Jerusha’s cheek.

  Jerusha looked at the little girl. Reddish blonde hair framed a strong forehead and a determined chin. The girl’s eyes were a deep, violet. Like Jenna’s.

  She pushed the thoughts aside and began to wrap the little girl with the loose clothing that was scattered about the car. She put some of the clothes under her to keep her away from the metal roof and then piled the cushion and the remaining clothes around her until only her face was peeking out.

  Jerusha felt something leap in her heart as she looked down at the little face. She pushed the car door open and crawled out into the storm. She glanced back once and saw a little hand waving goodbye to her. She quickly turned and retraced her steps toward Henry’s car. The wind was howling around her, and the snow was blinding. She staggered on, the cold wind stabbing through her clothing like sharp knives. She pushed on through the snow, over the rise, through the woods, and back to Henry’s car. She wrenched open the passenger door and grabbed the box that held the quilt. She felt the cold slowly draining the life out of her.

  “Lord, help me!” she screamed into the teeth of the storm. The shrieking wind and horrific cold were almost more than she could bear. But then suddenly a strange warmth began to steal through her body. Again she heard a voice.

  “Kumme, dochter! There is work to be done.”

  This time the voice was not her father’s voice. It was deeper, gentler, so peaceful, and in that moment she felt as though someone took her hand and began to lead her through the storm.

  Bobby and Mark made their way slowly down Kidron Road. Bobby was in front, plowing the way, and Mark followed close behind in the Ford. Bobby kept his eyes peeled for the dead cow.

  It was right along here somewhere. Boy, it’s hard to see out here! Got to keep my eyes open...There it is!

  The dead cow lay on its back in the ditch with its legs pointing grotesquely up in the air. Bobby leaned out of the cab and waved to Mark. Mark pulled up, got out, and made his way to the tractor.

  “The car must be along here on the other side of the road,” Bobby yelled. “Henry said he hit the cow and slid into the ditch. I’ll go on toward the highway, and you head back the other way toward town. We should find it within a hundred yards either way. Don’t go farther than that, and meet me back here in ten minutes. If you find anything, honk your horn and flash your lights. If I find her I’ll turn on my red flashers.”

  Mark turned the Ford around and slowly moved away into the storm. Bobby began to head south on Kidron Road. He had gone no more than fifty feet when he saw the car. It was off the road in the ditch with the front end pointed toward him. A snowdrift nearly covered it, and it was easy to see how he had missed it when he came by earlier.

  Bobby switched on his red flashers, hoping Mark could see them in the storm. He climbed down out of the cab and into the violent, howling wind, barely able to stand up. Bobby made his way down the bank and peered into the car. There was a pile of unfolded newspapers on the backseat, but the car was empty! Just then Mark pulled up alongside the tractor. Bobby struggled back up to the road, made his way to Mark’s car, and opened the door.

  “Jerusha’s gone,” he yelled. “The car is empty. She was there. Henry said she had a blanket, and it looks like she piled up newspapers to keep warm, but now it’s empty and she’s gone.”

  “What do you want to do?” yelled Mark.

  “Let me see if I can tell where she went or if there are any signs leading away from the car,” Bobby shouted.

  Bobby struggled through the drifted snow back down to the car and searched all around it. Beside the car, where the wind wasn’t so fierce, Bobby saw what remained of footprints, now blurred by the snow. He was unable to tell which direction the tracks led. His heart sank. He turned and pushed his way back up to the Ford.

  “I don’t know what to do, Mark. I see footprints, but they’re no help,” Bobby said.

  “You’re just going to have to put this all in the Lord’s hands,” said Mark.

  “What?” shouted Bobby.

  Mark raised his voice to a shout. “I said you’re going to have to put this in God’s hands. She’s gone, and there’s no way to find her now in this storm. You can’t stay out here. It’s getting dark. You’ve got to give it up for today and get some rest. You can start again in the morning.”

  “In the Lord’s hands.” That’s what Reuben said the last time I saw him. He said he was going to put his life in the Lord’s hands—his relationship with Jerusha, his past, his future...The war sure chang
ed Reuben. It took something away from who he was. He was never afraid before he went to Guadalcanal. Sure, he worried about whether he would measure up in battle, we all did, but he was never afraid. He took life day by day, and I never saw him really troubled by anything that came his way...until that last battle and then when Sarge died. Something closed up inside him after that. When he left he told me he was going home, back to the church and the old ways, and he was leaving the world behind him and never looking back. He wouldn’t talk about it. That’s all he would say about it.

  “Bobby, did you hear me?” shouted Mark.

  “What? Oh yeah, in the Lord’s hands. Okay, Mark, you’re right,” Bobby shouted. “We can’t do anything more tonight. If the Lord is the only one who can sort this out, I’m going to have to let your faith do the job because I sure don’t have any. I wish Reuben were here. I could sure use his help. Come on, Mark. Follow me back to Dalton. We’ll try again in the morning.”

  “Let’s pray,” said Mark.

  “What?” shouted Bobby.

  “I said let’s pray!” shouted Mark.

  “Oh...uh, okay, Mark, but I don’t know what to say.”

  “Okay,” said Mark. “Then just shut up and listen, and when I get done, say amen.”

  Mark grabbed Bobby’s hand, and in the middle of the raging storm, he knelt down on the road. Bobby awkwardly followed his lead.

  “Lord...” Strangely, Bobby could hear every word as Mark began to pray. “Lord, You know where Jerusha is. She may already be with You, and if she is, she’s better for it. But if she’s still alive and out in this storm, we ask that You would set Your mighty angels round about her to guard and protect her. Lead her to safety and keep her until we can find her. We trust You for it in Jesus’ mighty name. Amen.”

  Mark looked at Bobby.

  “Oh...uh, amen,” Bobby said.

  Jerusha struggled back to the upside-down car and the little girl. She opened the door and crawled inside, out of the wind. She opened the collar of the little girl’s thin coat and felt her skin. It was icy to the touch, but she was alive. I’ve got to get her to the cabin. I need just a little more strength to do this.

  Jerusha stopped for a minute and then spoke out loud. “Lord, I’ve turned from You and denounced You, and I know I don’t deserve anything from You. But this little girl will die unless I get her out of the storm. I don’t know if You’ll help me after what I’ve said to You, but would You give me the strength to help this little girl?”

  Then Jerusha opened the box and took out the Rose of Sharon quilt. She pulled the tiny body out from under the pile of clothing, gently wrapped the little girl in the quilt, and lifted the bundle into her arms.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Shadow of His Wings

  JERUSHA CRAWLED OUT OF the overturned car, carrying the little girl wrapped in the Rose of Sharon quilt. The wind had reached cyclone force, and the snow was blinding. Jerusha stood up and oriented herself. She could see the flat, frozen surface of the pond and on the far side, barely discernible through the blizzard, the forest.

  I’m on the highway side of the pond. The cabin is across the pond and through those trees. There’s a path by the big pine and through the gorse bushes. It’s only about a quarter of a mile. I’ve got to find the path.

  Jerusha stepped onto the ice. It was firm under her step. She leaned into the wind and started across the pond. Every step was nightmarish, every breath almost impossible to take. The wind seemed to be trying to snatch the air out of her lungs. Bitter cold clutched at her like hands of death. The ice was treacherous and slippery beneath her feet. Though it was frozen, she knew that there could be thin spots, and with the added weight of the little girl...no, she would not think about it.

  Step-by-step she continued across. Once she heard a crack and stood in her tracks, holding her breath. Then she began again slowly.

  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she neared the opposite bank. The pond made a small inlet where the creek ran down to it. A dead tree had fallen into the inlet, and the ice had formed around it. The branches stuck up like dead fingers clutching at her from the grave.

  As she made her way past the partially protruding log, she felt the ice give beneath her feet. The log had kept the water from freezing solid, and there was an unfrozen pocket of water just under the surface. With a loud crack the ice broke, and Jerusha plunged into the freezing water up to her knees. Carefully she laid the little girl on the ice and pushed her toward the bank. It was solid there, and the ice held. Then Jerusha stretched her upper body out flat on the ice and slowly lifted her right knee up over the edge. At first the edge of the ice broke off, but as she moved closer to the bank, it became thicker and stronger. When she could finally stretch her leg out on solid ice, she rolled over and lifted the other leg out of the water. She lay on the ice gasping for breath, soaked to her knees and numbed by the cold. She sat up, pulled off her galoshes, and emptied the water out. She pulled them back on, slowly stood up, took hold of the quilt, and dragged the unconscious girl to the bank. When she had the child out of danger, she picked her up and looked toward the forest ahead. But where was the path?

  Please help me, Lord, or I will die right here. Give me the strength to save this little girl.

  She began to walk toward the trees. She could feel the bottom of her coat and her dress beginning to freeze solid, making it difficult for her to move her legs. Ahead...surely the path was ahead among the trees. It just had to be.

  At last she stepped through the trees marking the entrance to the forest. As she trudged ahead, an occasional branch whipped at her face. One branch caught on the quilt and tore it, sending a piece of the red silk to the snow. The wind whipped it away.

  Another step. She looked ahead. The gorse thicket. It’s through here and down into the meadow, and beyond that...the cabin.

  The thicket stood like an enemy, the branches bent by the wind like a row of bayonets. She forced her way through. The brush grabbed at the quilt and snagged it. Jerusha had to jerk the fabric to pull it free, and as she did she felt the material rip.

  Exhausted, she lumbered on. The little girl lay still, a dead weight in her weary arms. Minutes later, Jerusha came out the other side of the thicket. The wind, howling like a banshee, tried to knock her down, but she gathered herself for one last push.

  Then called I upon the name of the Lord; O Lord, I beseech thee, save me.

  Step-by-step she crossed the meadow. There was the creek! And there, beyond the creek, the cabin. Jerusha held the little girl tightly and forced her way through the drifts of snow.

  The back door...that’s the way in. There is a broken latch and you just jiggle it...

  She climbed up on the porch and made her way around to the side of the cabin, through a little covered walkway between the cabin and a small shed, and to the back door. She grasped the handle and shook it up and down while she pushed against it with all her weight. There was a click, and the door creaked open. She stumbled inside and closed the door behind her.

  Jerusha collapsed on the floor, exhausted. It was wonderful to just be out of the wind and the snow, and she lay there for a moment breathing deeply. Then she felt a slight movement in her arms. The little girl. Jerusha roused herself.

  I’ve got to find something that I can use to build a fire.

  Jerusha gently laid the child down and then stood up and looked around. A couple of empty beer cans were lying in the corner. The inside walls of the old cabin were made of pine boards, and some pieces were torn off. A few of them were nailed together into a rough wooden table that stood by the front door. There were a few cracks in the floor, and any carpet or linoleum that had been in the house had long since disappeared. The day’s last light was filtering through some small windows above the door, and it was rapidly growing dark. The rest of the windows were boarded over.

  An old potbellied stove stood against the far wall, and next to it was a pile of sticks and pieces of wood. Someone ha
d been here and left some dry firewood. Next to the stove was a low shelf made of two milk crates and one of the pine boards. On the shelf was a small candle in a saucer. Jerusha looked along the shelf. There, at the end of the board, she saw a book of matches.

  Thank You! Thank You! Now what do I have to do? Think, Jerusha, fight the cold! Oh, Reuben, I wish you were here. You would start a fire so quickly. You made one for me the day we came here, before you left for the war. That day started out so beautifully and ended so badly. We lay by the fire on blankets, and you held me. You wanted me to marry you, to be yours forever...but I said no. I couldn’t marry a man who wasn’t baptized in the church. When you took me home that night I realized I might never see you again.

  Jerusha put her face in her hands and wept.

  I’m so sorry, Reuben, for everything...

  “Jerusha! Wake up!”

  Jerusha pulled herself together as much as she could. She was so cold she was shaking, and her feet and hands were numb. Her thoughts were wandering.

  I’m going into shock. I’ve got to stop dreaming and start a fire. I’ve got to stay focused here, or we will both die!

  Jerusha picked up some of the wood. There were some dry kindling-sized pieces, but there was no paper. There were only three or four matches left in the packet, so she had to find something that would catch and burn.

  The quilt! I can use the padding to start the fire.

  She started to tear the quilt open when she heard a voice in her head. It was angry and bitter and arrogant.

  “What are you doing? This quilt is your masterpiece. You’re throwing away your only chance to get away, to start a new life. Are you insane?”

  And then the gentle voice...

  “This little girl’s life is at stake. You must do whatever it takes to save her.”

  Jerusha remembered watching her father shape the boards for her grandmother’s coffin and what he had said to her that day.

  “You have become well known for your skill, but you must always remember that Jesus is the vine and you are only the branch. Without Him you can do nothing. There may come a day when you must give all back to Him.”