"Life will be good again," she said, placing her arms around me. "It will be different, but it will be good."
Life will be good again.
I can't remember if I believed her then, but I knew her words were important. Because she was speaking to me not as a minister, but as a mother.
A mother who knows.
I think of her often.
She was, after all, the one who, despite living halfway across the state, agreed to marry us 17 years ago.
I think of that hot July day often too.
Of course we knew there would be challenges, but we were banking on life's normal challenges. But we made promises that day. That we'd stick together when everything else fell apart.
And when it did, there we were making promises again in a hospital waiting room. Promises to stick out this life, to keep breathing even though both of us just wanted to stop. Promises to live for and to love our children with what was left of our hearts.
Although I can't pinpoint exactly when, I do know that somewhere along the way to making good on our promises, I began to realize my minister was right.
Life will be good again.
There are basketball games in the driveway. Walks around the loop. Cuddles before bed. And water fights.
Glimpses that life will be good again.
But there will always be a catch in my throat. A child missing. One less plate at the dinner table. And one less kiss goodnight.
Still, I have to believe it'll be good again. Different, but good.
