Into the Fire

                    From my solo mystery novel Race: 

Chapter 13 (the final paragraph of the chapter)

     The hardest part of the day for me came now. I used to stop off at one – or a few – of my favorite bars. I hated going back to the house. My house. The one Sheila shared with me for a quick 13 years. She loved the two-story with dormer windows, and I gave her free rein to decorate as she pleased. She made it a great home. Now it always feels empty. Unfinished. Broken. In the end she didn't want much from me other than my signature on the divorce papers, but I mail her money every month accompanied by a letter explaining why I need to do this for her. I know she reads the letters – she's not vindictive, and I know she loved me once. Really loved me. When she didn't cash the checks, I sent cash. Nothing's come back to me so I kind of chokehold a morsel of hope for us. Crazy, I know. The odds of that happening are like betting a 50 to 1 shot on any given race day. But every now and then one of those longshots comes in and makes a last chance gambler pretty happy. 

Father, apart from you I can do nothing. Thank you for it all – even though thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.