"Bloodstains"

And in that day you will say,
"Give thanks to the LORD, call on His name.
Make known His deeds among the peoples;
Make them remember that His name is exalted."
Praise the LORD in song, for He has done excellent things;
Let this be known throughout the earth.
Cry aloud and shout for joy, O inhabitant of Zion,
For great in your midst is the Holy One of Israel*

This will be my third Thanksgiving with grandfather and grandmother. My third year to slip out to the cemetery before dawn. As I sit by the slabs of granite where Dad and Mom are buried, I whisper the words of Isaiah from memory. To sit there praising God with my mouth, while at the same time all the old pain is welling up in my chest - it is a curious feeling. But that's what you get in life - all the hurt and hope mixed up together.

The first flakes of snow begin to fall as I let myself back in the house and escape to the kitchen to warm back up. Grandmother is already worried sick about all the relatives getting stuck in a blizzard, but grandfather says a little holiday flurry never hurt anyone.

After a deceptively quiet morning, everyone seems to appear at once. Aunts and uncles come pouring through the front door - and the back door, and the garage. I'm pretty sure I saw Bradley leaping over the side fence but how he could have managed that with green beans in one hand and marshmallow sweet potatoes in the other I don't really know.

All the small children are running madly hither and yon - for the littlest ones it's like making new friends all over again. The snow gets piled higher and higher, the fire gets bigger and brighter, and everyone settles in for a good long visit.

Uncle Tommy seems quieter this year - more frail. I manage to guide him through the melee and we sit together on grandmother's love sear to watch the happy comings and goings. Most people don't know what to do with Uncle Tommy. He is always sitting alone, smoking cherry cigars. When his eyes well up with tears, people get embarrassed and don't know what to say. They are afraid that something has reminded him of the war, or of Aunt Mary, or of his sons. Uncle Tommy and I get along just fine together, just two lonely souls.

A little later on I am rushing around passing out grandmother's famous punch when Uncle Tommy touches me gently on the arm. I can smell his rich cherry tobacco as I lean close and he whispers to me that I need to talk to Sequoyah. Surprised, I open my mouth to question him but he has already limped away.

Sequoyah was sort of grafted into our family tree. She was engaged to my cousin Gray, and she always stuck around, even after the accident. Nobody questioned her being a part of our family - she always seemed to fit right in. I guess she doesn't have a lot of family of her own - there's a lot she doesn't ever talk about. Sequoyah is maybe twenty years old. She is tall and slim and beautiful. She doesn't talk much, but you will always find her lending a hand somewhere or cradling a sleeping baby. They can never seem to stay awake in her arms.

After some searching, I find there is no trace of her anywhere. That's very odd, I think. Then I see it, a dark silhouette barely visible out in the snow. Grandfather's holiday flurry has turned into a furious storm and now I know there is something wrong. It is hard to rush in a snow drift, but I do my best, gasping as the frigid air slaps the breath out of me.

I put my hand out to touch the shadowy figure and Sequoyah turns to my with almost empty eyes. She does not try to hide the knife in her hand and my heart stops dead as I see the drops of blood in the snow. Then suddenly she is weeping and she throws the knife to the ground. I leave the thing where is lays and lead the shaking, swaying woman back to the porch. What else am I supposed to do? I cannot take my eyes off the blood dripping from her arms. My own tears are freezing hard on my cheek. Sequoyah is sobbing harder than before and in a panicky voice I sing the only words that come to mind--

Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine! O what a foretaste of glory divine!

Heir of salvation, purchase of God, born of his spirit, washed in his blood.**

How utterly ridiculous - it is Thanksgiving Day, a woman is bleeding into the Vermont snow and I am standing there singing about blessed assurance - something that nobody seems to possess at this particular moment.

Sequoyah is still now. She has buried her face into her hands. In a hoarse voice, she is asking to hear about - Jesus. Because there seems to be nothing else to say, I just start with the manger and ramble on till I make it to Easter and - that's it. I just stop. They talked about sharing the gospel in church last Sunday - how could I have imagined this? I wasn't prepared to kneel on my own back porch and pray with anyone.

That's how they found us: two half frozen women clinging to each other, blood on our clothing, praying out loud to Jesus. There's a lot to be thankful for this year - and I have a brand new sister to share every moment.

Weak and wounded sinner, lost and left to die

O raise your head, for love is passing by!

Come to Jesus, come to Jesus, Come to Jesus and live***

* Isaiah 12:4-6, NASB
** "Blessed Assurance," Fanny J. Crosby, 1873
*** "Untitled Hymn," Chris Rice