Threads of TimeTHREADS OF TIME

A Thimbleful of Peace

Opening Scene

Sewikley, Pennsylvania 1868

What if John had come home when all the other soldiers did?

Susannah Westbrook had long ago lost count of the number of times she’d asked herself that question. She knew the answer. They’d be married by now—perhaps even raising a family. Her finger traced the embroidered J&S stitched into the corner of the colorful quilt that lay neatly folded on her lap. My wedding quilt. The fabrics might not be the finest, but each scrap was pieced with love and anticipation. The reds and blues hugged the yellows and greens as if in consolation for never fulfilling their purpose of gracing the marriage bed for Susannah and her intended.

The robins warbling outside the dormitory window reminded her another spring had eased its way into the western Pennsylvania hills. Three Aprils had come and gone since General Lee surrendered to General Grant at Appomattox, but she’d not heard a single word of John’s fate. Might he still come home? Was she foolish to cling to hope?

Susannah swiped at a stray tear and tucked the quilt safely beneath her cot in the corner of the large room. Sharing the space with twenty-two little girls didn’t allow for much privacy. Although she’d willingly give any of them her food or clothing, the quilt was special and not meant for grubby little fingers to explore.

The laundry she’d hung out earlier waited to be taken in, and supper would be late if she didn’t get it started. But instead she reached under her lumpy pillow and retrieved the letter she’d begun writing to Mrs. Laura Hunter—in many ways, the only mother Susannah had ever known. She’d only been four years old when she came to River Hills House of Refuge for Children. She still remembered how Mrs. Hunter had soothed her when she cried, taught her childish fingers to plait her hair, and patiently guided her through her girlhood. The woman had even prayed with her for John, encouraging her to not give up hope. And now her friend and mentor was gone back to Delaware to care for her invalid mother, leaving Susannah and the rest of the orphans in the hands of strangers.

“It’s not fair, God.” Susannah squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that burned. Not that God was listening. She didn’t doubt God listened to Mrs. Hunter—the woman was a saint. But no matter how many times the dear lady insisted Susannah was precious in God’s sight, how could Susannah believe someone as insignificant as she could catch God’s notice?

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