Long before the emergency room doctor turned to me with sad eyes and told me my husband was gone, I knew. In fact, I think I knew he would not be revived while he was still on our bedroom floor, a half dozen paramedics busily preparing him to be transported to the hospital. Something deep within me just knew that early morning would be the last I would spend with my husband.
Some people might call that “woman’s intuition” or a sixth sense. But I don’t believe in such things.
No, I believe that the Holy Spirit was stirring deep within me that morning, preparing my heart and disbelieving mind of what was to come. And while it didn’t give me comfort, necessarily, it did help to buffer the soul-crushing shock of it all.
I wish I could tell you that I started praying in those first moments after losing him. I wish I could tell you that I raised my hands in worship, thanking and praising God for the gift of my husband for the time that I had him. I wish I could tell you that my faith did not waver for one moment as I sat with his lifeless body and waited for the Medical Examiner to come for him…
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