(There will be a day . . .)



He strains against his wife's hands, trying to force the shotgun into his own mouth.

She pleads with him. "I didn't mean it. I don't wish you were dead. Please don't do this to us. Don't do it to your children."

He collapses to the floor sobbing, tossing the gun to one side.

His wife tries to hold him.

"Go away," he screams. "Leave me alone."

Snatching the weapon, she runs from the shed and hides the gun before she calls 911. He needs help and she doesn't have a choice. Not any more.




(with no more tears . . . )




She stands by the jetty's edge, letting the salt sting her face as the wind whips her clothes. Waves lap the barnacled legs of the wooden structure.

"Does anyone care?"

'I do,' a gentle voice replies.

She feels a hand on her shoulder.

'I care very much. Please, step back from the edge. I love you.This is never the answer.'


Wiping her face with both hands, she turns around to face the stranger.

No one is there.

"I'm going crazy," she shouts across the water.

'No, dear one. I have sent someone who understands. Go home. Let him help you.'

She runs from the beach and gets in her car. The radio is playing her favorite song. She picks up the ultrasound picture and stares at her baby's unborn face. 



(no more pain . . . )



Ignoring the knock on his door, he sits alone, staring into blackness. A thousand thoughts assail him. With clenched teeth and fists, he beats the walls. 

Empty bottles litter the floor like the discarded hope he refuses to hold on to. Hunger gnaws his stomach, but food will not stay down.

"Go away," he says to the persistent voices in his head and at the door.

His soul wanders lost within his heart, crying out for help, but he fears letting go of the pain. 

Pain is the only friend he has left.



(and no more fears . . . )

She stares at the television news report as they announce the death of another soldier. 

"Why, God?"

Her thoughts wing through the night sky. She stands by her son's side as he paces across the desert sands, shouldering his rifle. 

"Please stay safe," she whispers to the image in her mind. "I want you to come home -- alive."

She thinks of the family who received news of their son's death in Iraq this morning. Her hands shake as she opens up her Bible and wonders what her husband said to them when he turned up on their doorstep in his military best. 

"How would I ever cope?" she asks the book in front of her.



(There will be a day, when the burdens of this place . . . )



Looking more like a skin stretched over bones to dry, a three-year-old reaches into the black pot, and scoops out a handful of pasty gruel. 

Her older sister watches from the corner of the dirt-floored hut. Their mother has been gone for five days now and she knows they will never see her again. 

"Come, little one." Picking up the younger child, she hoists her over one bony hip and walks out into the hot African sun. Flies swarm at the child's mouth and eyes, desperate for stolen nourishment.  She heads down the worn path, toward a village three days walk away, knowing they may die trying to reach it.

"No matter. We will die if we stay here."


(will be no more . . . )


Arm in arm, the couple watch their adult  sons and daughters gather around the nursing home bedroom. 

Unseen by their beloved children, they hover above the room, as a bright light grows stronger. 

The woman turns to face it. "Oh, Jesus. It is really You? Is it our time?"

They laugh and run into His arms. 

The children stay behind to wait in hope and live their own  lives.



(we'll see Jesus face to face . . . )

The writer sits at her computer, searching her heart for the right thing to say to her friend. She whispers to the screen, knowing he is sitting out there, alone, somewhere.  

"God loves you so much. Please listen to the song. I know it will bless your heart and bring you hope. He's picking up the pieces of your life right now and restoring your wounded heart. Hold on, just hold on to Jesus."



(and until that day, we'll hold on to You always . . . . )