And Life Comes Back: A Wife's Story of Love, Loss, and Hope Reclaimed

“I couldn’t put
And Life Comes Back
down. As Tricia Lott Williford shared the heartbreaking death of her husband, her words spoke with piercing clarity to my own wife-heart. Holding nothing back, Tricia carried me through the pain, straight to what I know to be true about God—his faithfulness, goodness, strength, and peace, even in the midst of horrific loss. Of all the books you read this year, you can’t miss this one! It’s a journey that will leave you changed forever.”

“Tricia Lott Williford’s book reminds us it often takes a thick darkness to make known the light.
And Life Comes Back
is a candle that will light your path.”

“Tricia Williford’s brave, exquisitely wrought book is an act of stunning generosity. It is a story of grief, yes, but also of how love, language, and work can give us back to ourselves, even after enormous loss, and can push us out of brutal darkness into the glorious, ordinary light of every day.”

“I read this book through the night, every word a singular step toward purity and grace. Tricia Lott Williford takes us to a place so tender in its loss and yet so full of life that we willingly go with her through the sorrow to the truth of what comes after the great darkness.
And Life Comes Back
is no magical thinking. It is a treasure for any who love ‘what death can touch.’ A stunning voice; her story and her sharing of it a unique and longed-for celebration of the human spirit.”

“In the midst of devastating pain and the frailty of motherhood, Tricia narrates each scene with such poetic perfection about her own imperfection. Pages are woven with honesty, humor, doubt, and faith to reveal a woman’s unapologetic questioning of God, death, and grace. With bite-size lessons in friendship, marriage, and parenting, Tricia helps us capture the presence of God in both tragedy and in everyday dialogue.”

“Tricia’s story is profound and at the same time so simple. It’s tragic and at the same time so universal. It’s a story of deep grief and deep healing. It’s a story of hope for those of us who have been in the ditch and who pray we’ll find life again. It’s a story for you and me. You won’t want to miss this one.”

For Tucker and Tyler

Gas tank: full. Cell phone: charged. iPod: stocked. I drive up I-70 toward the mountains. A decision of classic, spontaneous impulsion on my part. Once I’ve decided I want to do something, I want to do it today. This is no exception.

Robb and I weren’t a perfect match. We were different in every way. But maybe the differences make the perfect match. He liked a planned agenda; I thrive on spontaneity. He was a filer. He put everything in its place. I am a piler, and I can’t find anything once it leaves my hands. He liked to visit the same restaurants and order favorite dishes; I like to try new places and taste new things. He went to bed at the same time every night, just after the nightly weather report at 9:17 p.m.; I come alive at night, often thinking and writing and creating into the early morning hours. He was deeply invested in the decisions of the government and any election; I am apolitical and often handed him my ballot since it mattered so much more to him. He believed in the thrill of competition; I enjoy the commercials and believe in the gracious social merits of the game. I always have a book in my hands; he was nonliterate. Not illiterate, but nonliterate; he hated to read. We parented differently. I read books, conduct Internet research, post on parenting blogs, and study consequences based on love and logic. He wrestled on the floor, tickled and roughhoused, and earned respect by saying things like, “Dude, just obey. I’ve pooped bigger than you.”

But we both loved road trips and loud music on the iPod. (I like mine louder than he preferred.) We loved having people in our home (although I could quickly and seamlessly add a chair to our dinner table while he preferred a guest list in advance). We both loved serving people; I would listen and learn their favorites and their fears, while he would grab his tool belt and fix any problem at hand.

Years ago I stopped trying to make us match—him the same as me, me the same as him. I learned that his relationships, although far less verbal, were in no way inferior to mine; they were just different. His experiences and his preferences were different from mine, but they were equally valuable. The ways he chose to love me were, in fact, loving me. The face of love depends on one’s willingness to understand two vernaculars of the same language. We were not the same. We didn’t always understand each other. And we made a great team.

In the passenger’s seat is the white paper bag with handles. It looks like it could come from a candle shop or a quaint boutique. No one might guess that it holds the canister of my husband’s ashes.

I drive on a two-lane road that becomes more winding, less crowded, and finally utterly secluded as I arrive at a lake just below the mountain’s highest elevation. I turn off the car. I step out. The air is crisp and silent. I button my coat, grab the handles of the white bag, and click the remote to lock the car as I walk toward the water.

Life was rich. No matter what the future held, this was a marvelous moment.

—Madeleine L’Engle,
Two-Part Invention