Life. Death.

Life. Death. And all the living and loving and hurting in between.

As my husband and I drove home from Lynchburg Sunday night, we saw two deputy's patrol cars and at least ten other vehicles parked beside a house we pass often. I knew something major had happened and I worried about the couple who lives there. I didn't know them, but had seen them occasionally in their yard tending to their tomato plants or outside with their Welsh corgi dogs. I wish I had stopped and introduced myself, gotten to know them. I think I would have liked them.

What had happened? Had an intruder broken into the home and robbed or killed one of them? I learned on Monday that the wife had killed herself. My heart aches for her and her husband. I thought about the childhood each of them had lived, wondered how they met and fell in love and married. I can picture them moving into their first home, laughing together, buying their first Welsh corgi. Did they have children? Grandchildren? And what happened along their journey together that would cause her so much pain that she felt life was no longer worth living? At least now her pain is over. I hope their good times far outweighed the bad.