Out of Pain Came Love: I Thank God for Sending Me James!
My name is Anna Peters, and I live in Stratford-upon-Avon, nestled along the banks of the River Avon. From my earliest years, I’ve always adored children—I could watch them play for hours, dreaming of the day I’d have my own little one. By the time I turned 25, this dream felt within reach. I’d sit in the park, watching kids laugh, tumble, and get back up, my heart aching with the desire to be a mother.
Max was my first real partner. We planned our future and talked about marriage. When I discovered I was pregnant, I was overwhelmed with happiness. I envisioned our family, home, and baby. But for Max, this news was shocking. He turned pale, withdrew, and eventually packed his belongings and left the flat we shared. I was left alone—abandoned, with a child on the way, and without a word of goodbye. I never saw him again. At night, sleep eluded me as thoughts buzzed around like wasps: abortion, giving the child up, raising it alone. I quickly dismissed the first two as betrayals of myself. The third option frightened me: I knew my parents would disapprove, complain, but I was prepared to fight.
People say morning is wiser than evening, and with it came hope. On my way to work, burdened with a heavy heart, I bumped into James at the entrance. He was my neighbour—a tall, kind guy who had subtly shown his admiration for me. I often caught his warm, lingering glances and saw how he rushed to help carry my bags when I returned from shopping. Usually, I’d pass by with a brief “hello,” but that morning I stopped. We got talking. He asked about Max, and for reasons I couldn’t pinpoint, I opened up about my pain, fear, and loneliness. That evening, he waited for me at my doorstep with a single red rose in his hand, and a month later, we got married. I didn’t want a wedding—it felt hypocritical, but James insisted, saying, “Everything will be alright, trust me.”
My husband was a treasure—kind, intelligent, caring, with an open heart. But I didn’t love him. When our daughter Cathy was born, he worked wonders: in four days, he turned our house into a fairy tale, renovating everything himself and setting up her room like something out of a child’s dream. Friends pitched in, and I saw him beam with pride. Something shifted within me; warmth spread across my chest, but the spark, that magic, still wasn’t there. James fought for my heart, never giving up, showering me with care, but I remained as cold as a wall.
Then fate struck again. Our son was born—weak, unwell, with a severe condition. The doctors looked at us with pity: “Let him go; it would be for the best.” I looked into James’s eyes and saw the same terror tearing at my soul. We refused, holding onto each other like a lifeline. But a week later, our baby passed away. We cried together through the night—he held me, whispering that maybe our son had moved on to a place without pain. This loss broke us but bonded us more tightly than I could have imagined. That night, for the first time, I felt that I loved him—not just with respect or gratitude, but truly loved him with all my heart. From pain, like a phoenix from the ashes, love was born.
Then, as if by some miracle, our boys arrived one after the other—two radiant, lively whirlwinds. Now our home is filled with laughter, warmth, and life. I’m madly in love with James, the father of my children, my rescuer. He came into my life when I was on the brink of despair and pulled me back into the light. I believe God sent him to walk with me through the tears until the day we’d cradle our grandchildren. Every morning, as I look at him, I think: thank you for being here. Thank you for not giving up. From our grief grew happiness—real and unshakeable, like a rock. And I know, with him, I’m ready to face anything.
