“My husband is leaving me.”
This is the first line of the book I’m currently reading. And I inwardly groaned when I saw that. Because, frankly, divorce hits a raw nerve for me.
I come from a divorced family, for one. Secondly, my own marriage isn’t all roses and sunshine. (Is anyone’s??)
Not that I’ve ever considered divorce. My husband, Adam, is actually very gentle and very faithful. But he doesn’t know how what to do when I have a creative outburst: either over-the-moon excited or crying-for-an-hour depressed.
Aye. The life of a creative.
Needless to say, my hubby doesn’t know how to react. So, he doesn’t. (Very wise, actually.)
So, yeah, I don’t get a whole lot of love notes and roses. (Can anyone blame him? I’m a walking landmine most of the time!)
Anywho … That’s for a different post ; )
Back to the book …
Oh, here it is, by the way. “Where Hope Begins” by Catherine West.
I kept reading, because that’s what I do.
And then, in chapter 6, I hit this:
“Joseph and I lost a son. Our firstborn. His name was Mark. He was sickly from birth and didn’t make it past his first birthday. I thought the grief would kill me.” She holds tight to my arm as we continue on the path, back toward the house. “At first, Joe couldn’t’ bear it. He wouldn’t enter the nursery, wouldn’t speak his name. Wouldn’t visit the grave with me. He stopped coming to church. Stopped talking to me like he used to. In a way, part of him died right along with my sweet boy.”
My throat constricts and it’s hard to breathe.
Kevin.
Oh, God. Why is she telling me this?
“How did you get through it?” I have to know. I have to know if they survived it, have to know they didn’t stay together out of duty.
We arrive at the end of the long glass and white wood structure, and Clarice pauses. “How?” She turns to look at me through watery eyes, yet she is smiling. “I began to pray. And not prayers I normally prayed either. Oh no. But that’s for another day, dear.”
No, not another day. I want to know now! But I can’t say that because we’ve just met and I feel off-kilter around her as it is. So I nod instead and hold my breath as she hands me her stick, lifts a slim gold chain from around her neck, and slides a small key into the lock on the door.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Suddenly, I’m sucked in to this story. I am the protagonist and Clarice is my mentor. My heart is screaming the same words, “Tell me! Now! I have to know! How did you get through? How did you get your marriage to be so strong?”
Because, like the protagonist, I haven’t been praying for my husband. I hadn’t even thought of it.
And then I’m catapulted into the nonfiction book I read when I was newly married: “Power of a Praying Wife” by Stormie Omaritan. And digging through the boxes in my storage until looking for it. Then I’m on the phone with my mentor from church asking if we could read this book together.
Like what you've read? I'm also on Facebook and Twitter!Has this ever happened to you? A novel is so compelling you start reading nonfiction to learn more? Or, better yet, your faith in God is polished and your relationship with God becomes more vibrant overnight?
