The Act of Giving Thanks

by Margret Wiggins

The children of St. Ambrose have two benefactors: their Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, and Mr. Whitehall. To the former they pray twice daily, not including grace before meals. To Mr. Whitehall they write letters.

Each Sunday at 1pm after lunch trays have been cleared, the knives and forks removed, the long tables wiped clean, Sister Monica and Sister Doris distribute a sheet of crisp, thick, white St. Ambrose letterhead to each child sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the dining hall benches. Today, Sister Monica walks down the aisles on the left side of the room with the tables for the girls and Sister Doris takes the right side for the boys. The room quiets. The Sisters’ shoes scuff against the stone floor. The letterhead wisps as sheets get individually pulled from the stack and set down. Sister Doris is known to correct posture as she distributes, one hard push of her flat palm at the center of a child’s back has them snapping upright.

The children take out their pens, to be kept on their person at all times during the day. Slotted within the breast pocket of the St. Ambrose navy blazer. Sister Monica tells them to begin. The click of pens echo through the room like a swarm of insects. Bandaged fingers grip their pens. Dear Mr. Whitehall the children write. Always dear, never to.

The children write about how fortunate they are to be housed, not homeless and cast aside. How indebted they are to Mr. Whitehall—St. Ambrose’s largest donor—for generously providing a sanctuary for them to be safe in God’s warm embrace. The children write about the horrors of a life without St. Ambrose, without Mr. Whitehall’s kindness and altruism. A life of darkness and ruin and sin. After two paragraphs (at least four sentences each) of exultations, the children sign-off with Praise be, and their full name printed underneath.

The letters are an expression of gratitude. And the act of giving thanks is a form of sacrifice. Some of the children lift the sharp edges of the paper to their tongue and slice it quickly across, careful to angle their open mouths so the blood drips onto the letterhead. Some children find unmarked flesh of fingers or palms and make the cut there. Others prefer to reopen existing wounds, peeling back bandages to expose cracked and tender skin.

Words of acknowledgement are nothing if not met with actions of appreciation. The children are reminded of this during services, during their daily reflections and prayers. Sunday, the Lord’s Day, is a day of repentance and new beginnings. A day to spill blood in the name of the Holy Spirit. A day to worship and give thanks.

Two lines begin to form by the dining hall entrance. One-by-one the children hand their letters to Sister Monica and Sister Doris for inspection. Penmanship must be neat and precise. A letter will be rewritten if deemed illegible. If necessary, Sister Monica will grip a child’s wrist and use the pin in her hand to prick the plump pad of a pointer finger. The child’s sacrifice is found wanting. An affront to Mr. Whitehall. Squeezing the broken flesh over the letterhead to draw thick drops of blood, she’ll stain red the embossed beehive underneath a cross. The symbol of St. Ambrose, the patron saint of beggars.

Once inspected, the blood-spattered letters are stacked in a box, ready to be shipped to Mr. Whitehall. The children do not expect a letter in response. Mr. Whitehall has never visited St. Ambrose, let alone written a child back. Each Sunday a box of letters is sent and a check cut in return.

For most of the children writing to Mr. Whitehall does not ease the sting of the memories of former parents and caregivers. They hold on to the hope of becoming reclaimed. Filing outside the hall, the children are given time for free and silent reflection. Some of the children walk through the courtyard to the infirmary to get fresh gauze and bandages to staunch the bleeding. Some let the blood clot on its own, keeping their hands sticky and wet. The children who have cut open their tongue swallow the coppery tang of their saliva. They press their tongues against the back of their bottom teeth, feeling the blood blooming once more and filling their mouths with their sacrifice.