Five days after our wedding, early on a Friday morning, June was gone.
I was there. Wes was there. Hazel was home with a neighbor. The sky through the window was just turning from black to the color of skim milk. June’s fingers loosened in mine so gently I almost didn’t notice. The pink heart was still on her hand, the tape still holding it on.
Bettina came in and stood quietly in the corner. She didn’t say anything. She knew better than to say anything.
My heart was broken. I won’t pretend it wasn’t. I had buried Carol, and I had buried my parents, and I’d buried more of my congregation than I could count. But this was something different. This was grief and gratitude knotted so tightly together that I couldn’t pull them apart.
I’d lost her twice. But I’d found her, too. I’d gotten to keep my promise.
