He told me of a day he had awoken sick in his heart, sick in his soul. He didn’t know what to think, he didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know what to believe. After all those years of marriage, all those years of joy, all those years of living life together, his wife had gone to heaven and he had been left on earth. Though days and weeks had passed, still he was in the depths of despair.
He told how he had laid in bed for longer than usual that morning, remembering the years of her decline, the years in which illness had been an unwelcome but constant presence in their home. He thought of how weak she had become and how tired she had been—tired in body, tired in mind, tired in spirit. He thought of how, as she had approached heaven, she had gained an even deeper assessment of her own sinfulness, and an even deeper sorrow for it. The light of heaven, drawing closer in her mind, had given her such clarity. He thought of how often they had wept together—wept for what had been and for what
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