Proof The Bible Is True

My husband, Henry, walked in and dropped a stack of newspapers on the table. I thought I spotted a beer can hidden behind his back, but he quickly turned to face me, hiding his hand from view. I brushed off the thought as silly. I must have just imagined it.

 

“Hi, darling,” he said, giving me a kiss before heading to his recliner and flipping on the morning news.

 

I glanced at the newspapers on the table. Slipped under the bundle’s string was a small envelope. It was payday for Henry’s newspaper route, which supplemented income from the crops we grew on our farm. Inside the envelope, alongside the check, was a pamphlet about four pages long. It was there every week, but I’d never paid it any mind. Until today.

 

The caption read Finding Love, Joy and Peace. It had a photo of a white, clapboard church with a steeple. Its address was in Waterville, the next town over. I’d always been a person of faith and prayed often, but I hadn’t been to church in years. Yet something about this one was so inviting. Maybe if I could get Henry there, it would somehow help him get on the right track again. Help him quit drinking.

 

“Henry,” I said, “I think we should go to this church.”

 

“Nope. No, thanks. Not for me,” he said over the hum of the TV.

 

My heart sank. I was worried that if something didn’t change, Henry would wind up hurting himself—or someone else. He’d already come close enough. A few weeks before, I’d woken to an empty bed, sun streaming in through the windows. Henry delivered his papers early and was usually back and asleep before sunrise. Not that day. Panicked, I’d hopped in my truck and raced down the country roads, thinking the worst. I’d found his blue Volkswagen in a ditch, with Henry in the driver’s seat, his head thrown back. I’d thought he was dead …

 

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