I HAD IMPOSSIBLY HIGH EXPECTATIONS. My wife was unique. I felt lucky to have found one person like that. The odds of finding two seemed astronomical. But that's where I found myself in November 1989, when, after a sudden fatal illness, she was gone.

We had met in a fencing class in college. For me at least, it was love at first sight. I was hooked by the way she scowled at me when I scored against her. We were married when we were still just kids, grew up together, molded our lives around each other, and made it (somehow) through the bad times.

Now, nothing was the same.

Nothing.

It wasn't just grief, it was horror. I felt as if I'd been ripped apart. How could this have happened? Nothing was normal. Everything felt dreamlike-strange, with each painful moment seeming to drag on forever. Even breathing was unnatural. I'd take a breath and have to force myself to exhale.

I had prided myself on my independence. While I'd believed in God, I had preferred not to involve Him unnecessarily in my affairs. Now, I saw only two possibilities for my future: spending the rest of my life in a padded cell, or turning wholeheartedly to God.

While theoretically I believed in an all-powerful God, I didn't see how even God could help me. I was a middle-aged man searching for companionship, but completely unfamiliar with and uninterested in dating.

For months I prayed and struggled to put my will aside and to trust myself to God's care. It was hard. Sometimes the best I could do was to take one glimmer of comforting truth and say it aloud over and over until some peace returned.

Slowly I began to feel closer to God. There were moments of quiet confidence and trust. I made the effort to be grateful. The truth is, I was constantly surrounded by love—from family and friends, even though it wasn't the kind of love I ached for. Sometimes, an anonymous smile from a waitress in a restaurant or a checker in the grocery store was enough to get me through the day.

As I prayed, I thought about the Bible's promises of newness and renewal.

One day I came across this passage in Science and Health: "Human affection is not poured forth vainly, even though it meet no return. Love enriches the nature, enlarging, purifying, and elevating it" (p. 57).

If I'd been a cartoon character, you would have seen the light bulb flash over my head at that moment. I may have been doubtful that I had a complete grasp of divine Love, but "human affection"—I knew what that was. I decided that I would "pour forth" that "human affection" on everyone without exception and without any expectation of return. I figured that as long as I was really sure about having no expectations, I had license to feel affection for everyone.

Fast forward to October 1990. I'm talking to a friend of mine, the manager of recruiting for Northwestern University, where I'm the associate director of academic computing. I tell my friend, only half in jest, that I'm looking for a mate and could she find me somebody.

A couple of days later she calls and says they've just hired someone new in her office and perhaps I'd like to ask her out. I take Kristen's number, figuring, if nothing else, I need the practice.

I figure I'll ask her to lunch on the theory that an hour of almost anything is endurable. I ask; she accepts on the same theory, it turns out. At lunch, I can barely eat. I feel the affection that I've been trying to broadcast blasting back at me. I walk her back to her office, and we nearly kiss goodbye. Fortunately, at the last minute we remember that it's broad daylight, we've only known each other an hour, and we have a professional relationship to maintain.

Back at my office, as I ponder my next move, the phone rings. It's Kristen.

Kristen? Kristen! Calling on business, she didn't even know she was calling me. But naturally, being male, I assume this was her way of prodding me to make the next move. Emboldened, I ask her to go on a day-long excursion in my new car (which needed to rack up some mileage for maintenance reasons). Even though this was the last thing on her mind when she called, she accepts.

Our drive was on a glorious October day—the kind that only occurs in movies. The sky was a brilliant deep blue. It was warm, but with a crispness to the air that tells you that today is a blessing—winter is coming. I'm in my shiny new car and beside me is a woman who, although I didn't know it then, will shortly become my wife.

We have an extraordinary conversation in which months of a relationship are compressed into minutes, years into hours. We feel as if we've known each other forever and our talk is merely confirmation. We know before we ask.

Galena, Illinois, our destination (chosen strictly because of the mileage) turned out to be perfect. We explored the shops, held hands, and walked around the county fair. At the end of the day, we climbed up a hill overlooking the city. At the top of the hill, with the town below us and the hills rolling off into the distance, we finally got that first kiss.

I'd like to say that we lived happily ever after, but the truth is that we've had our problems, like any married couple. For nearly 12 years, though, there's never been a moment's doubt in my mind that the hand of God brought us together. I believe it is because I was willing to give love without expectation. And love came back to me.

This article first appeared on the website

www.spirituality.com.