Welcome March 1, 2004 Issue

Picking up the pieces

Bettie Gray

It was nearly midnight when my husband pulled away in his loaded pickup truck. He was moving out on his own into an apartment in the next town. How do you tell your kids the next morning where Daddy is? How do you explain why he didn't even say goodbye? Why did my life seem to be turning into a country-and-western song?

I cried. I prayed. I cried some more. In just a few days, though, I learned to save my tears till the children were in bed for the night so they wouldn't think sorrow was my only song. Once they were asleep, I'd head over to the couch and cry. It became a routine.

I kept praying, too, but that nightly date with tears went on for several months—until at last, one night, crying just suddenly seemed pointless. I did go over to the couch, but instead of grabbing the Kleenex box, I grabbed my Bible. It fell open to Isaiah 54. I had never spent much time reading that chapter before, but it became a close friend that night. And it has been ever since. Even that first night, I began to feel more loved, more valued, more capable, and more hopeful about what the future had for me and my kids. I began to see that God was still with us and that He cared. Piece by piece, my broken heart began to mend.

Send a comment to the editors

We'd love to hear from you!

Easily submit your testimonies, articles, and poems online.

Submit

Picking up the pieces

We'd love to hear from you!

Sign up for unlimited access