All I ever wanted in life was to be a wife and a mother. I met Mike when I was just 21 years old at a Christian college where we were both attending night school. Three short months later—on the day before my birthday—Mike asked me to spend forever with him. I couldn’t wait to become his wife. I’ve always loved planning, so I delighted in every little detail, from choosing the perfect dress to organizing our honeymoon cruise. We were married the following March on what felt like the rainiest day in history. People actually got lost trying to get to the church because the rain was coming down so hard. Everyone told me rain on your wedding day meant good luck, but we didn’t need luck—we knew without a doubt we were making the right choice.
Over the next 14 years, we welcomed three beautiful children into the world and pastored a wonderful, though small, congregation in the mountains of North Carolina. We were happily married, living in a rustic log home, building a life rooted in faith and love. I never imagined my life would look any different than it did in that season. It felt full. It felt safe. It felt perfect.
Then, one Tuesday night in December, everything changed.
Mike had taken the kids to our son’s basketball game while I attended classes at the same university where we had first met years earlier. We planned to meet at my parents’ house for dinner after the game. When I heard his ringtone, I assumed he was calling to say they were on their way. Instead, it was my oldest daughter on the phone, panicked and breathless. “Mom! We’ve been in an accident!” I asked if the airbags had gone off and if everyone was okay. She said, “Me and Eli and Anna are, but they can’t get Daddy to wake up.”
From that moment on, I stepped into a nightmare I felt I would never wake up from. By the time I reached the hospital, I was told that despite every effort, Mike was gone. He had died as soon as they arrived. We didn’t have life insurance. I worked only part time, and I had no idea how I would support myself and my three children. The year that followed was the hardest year of my life. I wrestled with God, questioning how He could allow this kind of pain. I learned in ways I never wanted to just how devastating grief could be.
After surviving that first year without Mike, I began to reflect on everything I had learned through the pain. We had moved back to my hometown so my parents could help with the kids. I had started a new job, found a new church, and was slowly learning how to breathe again. I remember writing in my journal, “I guess it’s time to begin writing the second chapter.”
Eleven days later, I received a message from Todd.
I had never met him in person, but I knew of him through my mom. His late wife, Angie, and my mom had been close friends and coworkers. Angie’s diagnosis of pancreatic and liver cancer had deeply affected my mom, and she had passed away the December before Mike died. Todd and I began talking innocently about the shared weight of widowhood and the challenges of being “only parents.” He had two adopted teenage daughters, and my children were 8, 12, and 14 at the time. Since we had both been happily married before our losses, we found ourselves talking openly about what we cherished in our first marriages and what we hoped might be different if we were ever given a second chance. That week, we talked for hours upon hours.
Todd asked if I’d like to meet for lunch on Friday—two days before Christmas. I wasn’t teaching that day, and Todd was off work, so we met at a local restaurant. He brought me flowers. We sat in that booth for three hours, talking, laughing, and crying. When we finally left, I sent him a text that said, “I know I should probably be playing it cool right now, but I had a really great time and I’d love to do it again soon.”
The day after Christmas, we went on our first real date. He took me ice skating in the mountains, and for the first time in an entire year, I felt a genuine smile spread across my face. I didn’t want the day to end. My heart, which had been so quiet for so long, began to wake up. It started beating again.
With each passing day, I felt more like a teenager than a 38-year-old mother of three. I never knew it was possible to deeply love two incredible men in one lifetime and be loved fully in return. It was humbling and beautiful. Exactly three months after that first lunch, Todd got down on one knee and asked me to be his wife.
I wasn’t sure how blending five children into one family would work, but I loved him deeply and trusted that the Lord would work it all out—and He did. Loving again after loss is exhilarating. We recently celebrated our one-year wedding anniversary.
There are still moments when fear creeps in—when I worry we won’t grow old together or that I might receive another devastating phone call. Some days, I make a point to declare my love and devotion out loud because I never want him to doubt how deeply he is valued. But every single day, I walk in the awareness that living and loving again is a gift. And I truly feel like the most blessed woman on the planet—because somehow, against all odds, I won first place twice.
