I paid for change—
good cash gone
to get my wife,
Jolene sober.
Her depression,
her drinking,
brought me to my knees.
I turned pages in a dusty Bible.
God, fix, Jolene,
I prayed.
Jolene left, returned,
left again—
friends always ready to party.
“If you leave,
stay gone,” I said.
She stayed gone.
I waited—
night heavy as grief,
both sky and heart broken.
It backfired—
a prophecy fulfilled.
I avoided repeated mistakes.
Bad news hits:
truth in faith—
an escape route.
Jolene entered
two days after
I lobbed hurt—
cut deep.
The fireplace burned,
framed pictures hung,
TV on, sound muted.
She removed her coat,
wept, and sat beside me.
“I’m sorry,” she said,
her voice breaking with tears.
“Losing my dad…”
“I understand,” I said,
my words tangled by sobs.
“I drank my sadness away.
It never worked.”
She touched my leg.
“Why didn’t you get clean?”
I embraced her hand.
She laughed,
brushing a single tear.
“That’s funny?”
I arched an eyebrow,
“I stopped drinking.
Spent time with friends.”
“What about me?”
My face fell.
She eyed the bookshelf.
“You read the Bible?”
I nodded, lifted it.
“Well, yeah.”
“Got faith again?”
Her eyebrow shot up.
“You could say that.
I’m not a bad guy after all.”
Jolene sighed.
“God exists,” she said.
“I prayed you’d see
your beautiful reflection
in the text—
and undying love for me.”
“You found it—and me.”
Faith in sobriety,
prayer together—
love, restored.