And Life Comes Back: A Wife's Story of Love, Loss, and Hope Reclaimed
Tricia Lott Williford
“Now I know that every single day, the best and the worst, only lasts for twenty-four hours.”
—Tricia Lott Williford, And Life Comes Back
When your life falls apart—through a death, a lost relationship, a diagnosis—you want more than anything to know that your pain has a purpose. And that beyond your pain, a new day awaits.
Tricia Lott Williford discovered this in a few tragic hours when her thirty-five-year-old husband died unexpectedly. In And Life Comes Back, she writes with soaring prose about her tender, brave journey as a widow with two young boys in the agonizing days and months that followed his death.
And Life Comes Back documents the tenacity of love, the exquisite transience of each moment, and the laughter that comes even in loss. This traveler’s guide to finding new life after setbacks offers no easy answers or glib spiritual maxims but instead draws you into your own story and the hope that waits for you even now.
danced around me. Our family of four, with our dog on her leash, walking the paved path with the mountain view. Years ago only two of us. Then we added a stroller, which we later traded for a double stroller. Then we upgraded to a wagon. And most recently we all walked together, and everybody had a buddy. Molly, our chocolate Labrador, peed in every yard while Robb tugged on her leash, embarrassed and hoping the neighbors weren’t watching. Tucker collected rocks, tossing and trading them for
Jenno is gifted in mercy. She feels for the underdog. I mean, she feels. She sweats on behalf of other people who might be nervous. She can cry on anyone’s behalf, her story or theirs. We say she has an inconvenient gifting; she can’t turn off her emotions or keep herself from carrying anyone else’s. She has a gentle disposition, but she has an untouchable ferocity that emerges when she needs it, like a secret weapon. This ferocity equipped her to deliver her second son on the street when she
public displays of impropriety. One by one, couples were knocked out of the competition when they didn’t receive the loudest cheers from the crowd, and still we stayed on the floor. Finally, there were two couples left: us and the new bride and groom. He even wore a tie. “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” the host announced into the microphone, “for our last round each of these gentlemen will have a chance to show his wife how much he loves her. Let’s bring a chair out onto the dance floor,
more to say to each other. Dinner conversations, chats on that walk around the neighborhood, pillow talk late at night—we always had a few more things to say. Where have those conversations gone? Are we too comfortable? Are we too familiar? Maybe we’re just too tired. He followed his meticulous routine of locking every door, turning off each light, then double-checking that each door was locked. Leaving him all the practical tasks, I checked on the sleeping little boys. I straightened this one’s
fury. In seconds the room filled with at least six—maybe eight—men on a mission. I continued the chest compressions until a trained professional placed his hands over mine and continued with a stronger rhythm than the one I had begun. I jumped out of the way and across the bed. “Please fix him. Please fix him. Oh, God, please fix him.” “Ma’am, you need to leave the room please.” I spotted the two shirts I had pulled from the drawer moments ago, the long-sleeved white and short-sleeved orange,