Had God abandoned me? Let my husband die and left me to raise this baby alone and shattered?
Or…did the Lord see something bigger? A purpose beyond what I could understand? Maybe James’s life hadn’t been cut short. Maybe it had been fulfilled. Maybe heaven really would be more crowded because of him, just like the slogan on his favorite T-shirt.
“You could have called him into ministry,” I whispered,falling to my knees on the rug where Honey slept. “You could’ve used him that way. You could have saved soulsthatway.”
Then, like a whisper that thundered in my soul, a voice came:
Not this soul.
It cracked through me like lightning. I gasped, a sob rising. Was God saying that Andre, who’d killed my husband—thatsoul—was the one James had been called to reach? And the only way of reaching him had been through James’s dying words? I’d never before considered myself a selfish person, but now, I realized I’d been selfish in this. I’d wanted James here with me forever. But had his death brought glory to God? Would Andre become a preacher and bring thousands to Christ?
I hadn’t really thought about the possibilities. But the story of the man born blind from the Bible rose in my mind. Jesus’ disciples asked Him what sin the man or his parents had done to deserve his being born blind. Jesus answered that neither was true, that he had been born that way so the works of God might be displayed in him. Was that what the Lord had done with James? I couldn’t forget the miracle Andre said that James had performed, touching him and the addiction and drugs fleeing his body. It was beautiful, incredible, and certainly a work of God.
Tears slid down my face. My selfish heart still wanted to have James back.
Then the Lord spoke again, gentle but firm:
What if it were you?
My breath caught.
What if I had been the one lost in addiction, stumblingthrough life in darkness? Wouldn’t I want someone to reach me?
“I would,” I sobbed. “I would want someone to try. But not like this… Not at that cost.”
And yet, that was the cost Jesus paid for all of us. Even me. A temporary death of the body so that we could all have eternity in heaven.
Something shifted deep inside, like a door I’d held shut was finally creaking open. I reached for my Bible, brushed off the dust, and opened it for the first time in over seven months.
My eyes landed on John 11:25:
“I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die.”
The words split me wide open. The sobs came full force, and I let them.
James wasn’t dead. Not really.
He was alive in Christ, living eternally in the arms of his Savior.
“I’m sorry,” I cried out. “God, I’m so sorry. Help me. Heal me. Don’t leave me.” I begged desperately.
I’d turned my back on Him. Cursed Him. Blamed Him. Shut Him out.
But in this moment, He didn’t return my bitterness. He gave me peace.
It started as a flicker in my chest, then grew. Slowly, steadily, sure. A warmth. A presence. A holy hush that told me He had never left.
He was always here.
I wept until the grief no longer controlled me. I was still sad. I would always miss James, but I wasn’t alone in itanymore. The sorrow no longer swallowed me whole. The Holy Spirit had come like a tide washing over the jagged rocks of my pain.
Peace.
I prayed through tears, laying down the guilt, the fear, the anger. Wondering if James would be ashamed of how I’d handled these past few months.
But there was no rulebook for losing your husband and finding out you were carrying his child.
I was doing the best I could.
