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His eyes met hers, and he gave her hand a light squeeze. Bending to her ear, he whispered, “Courage.”
“You’re my wife. We have a home. It’s not much, but it’s ours, and we ought to be together. Come, Julianne. It’s time to go home.”
“We can begin again,” she whispered, her throat tight with emotion, and caught his hand against her cheek.
There is no person so small that the Lord cannot see her, no voice so quiet that He cannot hear it.”
“Prayer is not a magician’s trick. The changes it brings cannot always be seen at first glance. But just as slippery elm soothes inflammation, prayer is a balm for a raw and ragged soul. And isn’t your soul in more need of healing than your skin?”
“I should think it obvious. Love ails a man, Julianne. And Captain Girard has a case worse than most.”
But after his conversion, every letter he wrote to the early churches began and ended with grace. Not the law, but grace.
Everything begins and ends with grace.
“But I want you to listen to me. You will survive it. If God wanted you with Him now too, He would have taken you. But here you are. There is more life for you to live. The sun will shine again.”
“The pain changes, and you will change with it. The sharp edges wear away in time, but the loss remains. You’ll learn how to live with it.
“Talk to the Lord, Julianne. Even if you’re mad as hornets. If you keep it all bottled up, you’ll only end up with a belly full of bee stings.”
He rose and smiled tenderly. “It would be no sacrifice to be your husband.”
It was a double cruelty that came with each death—that everything else kept on living, that the world did not pause for even an instant while Julianne slowly picked up the broken pieces of her heart.
“I want grace and peace for you and for me. No condemnation. Grace. And peace. From God, and from each other. This is my prayer.”
Love your enemy, Julianne, and that poison in your heart will disappear.”
“You behave like you love him—even if you don’t care for him—and your heart will release its bitterness. You practice grace.”
“We all have scars, my beautiful one. They make us who we are, and if we let them, they bring us together.”
Sorrow breeds isolation, and isolation brings despair.”
“Lily? My name! You have my name on your shoulder!” Madame’s lips parted in surprise. “So I do!” “You wear my name!” Lily repeated, just in case her French wasn’t clear on her first attempt. It must mean I belong here, she wanted to say,
She still marveled that God had taken her mark of judgment and used it as an instrument of grace.
