Read Online And Life Comes Back: A Wife's Story of Love, Loss, and Hope Reclaimed by Tricia Lott Williford - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tricia Lott Williford
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ripped off than to have to read or write right now.” He sat back in his chair, quite pleased with his comparison. Such was his disdain for all things in print. I laughed out loud. I did not see that one coming at all.
At that table, the one in the corner, we played Peanuts, our standardcard game. We streamed Sara Bareilles and Mumford and Sons on Pandora through his smartphone. There was a bad signal, sometimes a long delay between songs; he teased me for humming in the silence. He always beat me at Peanuts, except when he didn’t. Then he claimed to lose on purpose to keep me interested. We sprinkled some ridiculous competition throughout our dates, which I was slightly embarrassed about, especially if I had thrown down my hand of cards or stormed off to the rest room in a snit over speed and scores.
At that table, the one with chairs on one side and a booth on the other, I spent many hours on my own, writing, editing, working on other people’s words. On Monday night, three days before Robb died, during the week when everything would change, I had come here to write and edit a few assignments. In my writings I came across this passage in the second chapter of Hosea:
I will betroth you to me forever;
I will betroth you in righteousness and justice,
in love and compassion.
I will betroth you in faithfulness,
and you will acknowledge the Lord.
The verse distracted me from all my plans for efficient deadlines. I couldn’t get anything done for reading the words over and over again. They were rich with meaning, though I knew not what they meant. I picked up my pen, and though I didn’t know what I was going to say, words began to flow from me. On the page I wrote this poem, “Betrothed.”
I am betrothed to the Lord forever.
I am betrothed in righteousness,
for he has made me holy and whole.
I am betrothed in justice,
for he will create me as he has intended.
I am betrothed in love,
for he will hold me in his heart.
I am betrothed in compassion,
for his eyes look gently upon me.
And I am betrothed in faithfulness,
for he will never let me go.
I will acknowledge the Lord.
I set down my pen in the fold of the journal. I sat in still silence, barely breathing, holding on to this holy, unspeakable moment. In that sacred space I wrote this poem that is now written on my heart. The poem was born on Monday evening, and before the sun rose on Thursday morning, my husband died in my arms. God seemed to whisper to me in a poem like a psalm, “Sweet girl of mine, many things are about to change in the next forty-eight hours. But know this: you are mine. By the end of this week, you will no longer be a wife, but you will still be my bride. You are betrothed. Remember this, dear one.”
That booth—the one in the back—that’s where we sat on our last date. It was Tuesday morning, the boys were in preschool, and we hada “working date” together with our laptops. We sat across from each other, with my feet in his lap and his fingertips grazing the skin inside the edge of my pant leg. We texted each other, things we could have whispered or even said out loud. He posted on Facebook: “On a date with a beautiful girl.”
In another corner of the coffee shop, there is the couch where I sat to receive hundreds—literally hundreds—of guests at his calling hours, his wake, on the night before his memorial service. The evening is both vague and vivid to me, a smattering of images, sounds, and memories.
Tonight I sit here alone.
There is live music: a guitar and two vocalists, together depicting the best of John Mayer. Paper lanterns and white lights swoop from the ceiling. This room is as charming as it has always been. I ask the baristas if I may give them a picture of us, my husband and me. They smile, teary. They will put it on the mantel. If walls can hold a story, this room carries ours.
Well, I’m gonna get out of bed every morning, breathe in and out all day long. Then, after a while I won’t have
At that table, the one in the corner, we played Peanuts, our standardcard game. We streamed Sara Bareilles and Mumford and Sons on Pandora through his smartphone. There was a bad signal, sometimes a long delay between songs; he teased me for humming in the silence. He always beat me at Peanuts, except when he didn’t. Then he claimed to lose on purpose to keep me interested. We sprinkled some ridiculous competition throughout our dates, which I was slightly embarrassed about, especially if I had thrown down my hand of cards or stormed off to the rest room in a snit over speed and scores.
At that table, the one with chairs on one side and a booth on the other, I spent many hours on my own, writing, editing, working on other people’s words. On Monday night, three days before Robb died, during the week when everything would change, I had come here to write and edit a few assignments. In my writings I came across this passage in the second chapter of Hosea:
I will betroth you to me forever;
I will betroth you in righteousness and justice,
in love and compassion.
I will betroth you in faithfulness,
and you will acknowledge the Lord.
The verse distracted me from all my plans for efficient deadlines. I couldn’t get anything done for reading the words over and over again. They were rich with meaning, though I knew not what they meant. I picked up my pen, and though I didn’t know what I was going to say, words began to flow from me. On the page I wrote this poem, “Betrothed.”
I am betrothed to the Lord forever.
I am betrothed in righteousness,
for he has made me holy and whole.
I am betrothed in justice,
for he will create me as he has intended.
I am betrothed in love,
for he will hold me in his heart.
I am betrothed in compassion,
for his eyes look gently upon me.
And I am betrothed in faithfulness,
for he will never let me go.
I will acknowledge the Lord.
I set down my pen in the fold of the journal. I sat in still silence, barely breathing, holding on to this holy, unspeakable moment. In that sacred space I wrote this poem that is now written on my heart. The poem was born on Monday evening, and before the sun rose on Thursday morning, my husband died in my arms. God seemed to whisper to me in a poem like a psalm, “Sweet girl of mine, many things are about to change in the next forty-eight hours. But know this: you are mine. By the end of this week, you will no longer be a wife, but you will still be my bride. You are betrothed. Remember this, dear one.”
That booth—the one in the back—that’s where we sat on our last date. It was Tuesday morning, the boys were in preschool, and we hada “working date” together with our laptops. We sat across from each other, with my feet in his lap and his fingertips grazing the skin inside the edge of my pant leg. We texted each other, things we could have whispered or even said out loud. He posted on Facebook: “On a date with a beautiful girl.”
In another corner of the coffee shop, there is the couch where I sat to receive hundreds—literally hundreds—of guests at his calling hours, his wake, on the night before his memorial service. The evening is both vague and vivid to me, a smattering of images, sounds, and memories.
Tonight I sit here alone.
There is live music: a guitar and two vocalists, together depicting the best of John Mayer. Paper lanterns and white lights swoop from the ceiling. This room is as charming as it has always been. I ask the baristas if I may give them a picture of us, my husband and me. They smile, teary. They will put it on the mantel. If walls can hold a story, this room carries ours.
Well, I’m gonna get out of bed every morning, breathe in and out all day long. Then, after a while I won’t have
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