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I open it. The ink is smudged and frail, but the words hit like fists.

April 4, 1993

He noticed me after service again.

He says I sing like an angel, that my voice makes the Spirit move.

I blush when he says things like that. No one has ever said anything like that to me. Momma says he sees in me what most men don’t. I don’t know about that, but I do know one thing. Pastor’s men don’t usually notice girls like me. I don’t have the right kind of beauty, and I know it. I’m plain, and quiet. But he looks at me like I’m made of something rare. He says God puts certain women on earth to lift men higher. Maybe that’s my calling.

November 2, 1994

He asked me to pray with him tonight, just the two of us.

We knelt by the altar after everyone else had gone. The church lights were dim, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like Heaven might actually be listening.

After the prayer, he took my hand and looked at me, not like a man, but like something divine had passed through him.

“Eleanor,” he said, “I feel peace when you’re nearby. I think you’re meant to walk beside me.”

My breath caught.

Meant.

Chosen.

To be seen by a man so faithful, so certain of his calling. It felt like being pulled into the light.

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and whispered,

“You calm the storm in me. That’s how I know it’s God’s will.”

And then he kissed me.

With my eyes closed I kissed him back. With both feet off the ground, but my heart was in the heavens.

Mama told me once to be careful with men who speak for God.

She said, “The ones who shout the loudest often hear Him the least.”

Why is she being different about him? She said she liked him. That he’s a good man. Why the change of heart?

I’m not going to listen to her.

I don’t want to.

Because when he kissed me, it felt like grace.

July 13, 1995. Engaged

He brought me my favorite wildflowers today, the same kind that grow behind the church, the ones he says remind him of me: simple, but steady.

He held them out like an offering, and I laughed because they were still wet from the morning dew. He said that’s how he wanted to remember me. Fresh, unspoiled, untouched by the world.

We sat on the church steps afterward, and he talked about our future like it was already written down in some holy book. A small white house. Morning prayers before breakfast. Sunday hymns drifting through open windows. He said he wants a wife who honors God with her obedience, who raises children to walk the straight path. He said I was chosen for that.

When he looks at me, I feel like I’m standing in sunlight, warm and seen, the way I imagine Heaven must feel.

October 22, 1996. Lydia is born