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Mary Jane and her husband Rob were happy together. They lived on a farm in rural Iowa, where Rob grew corn and where the two of them raised three handsome, healthy boys. And then Rob got sick. It was like something out of a horror flick, out of a sci-fi novel: flesh-eating bacteria, contracted from the fields, perhaps, but no one really knew how or why. Deadly. Usually, those who contracted the bacteria had to have an amputation wherever the virus had set in. Rob's virus was in his collarbone. "What could they do, cut off his head?" sobbed a hysterical Mary Jane in her mother's arms. Within three days, Rob was dead. What did Mary Jane have left? Three young sons, a grief-stricken heart, and a church community who would, for the rest of her life, be the only line that could sustain her and her grieving family through the bad times now and the good times that would, someday, return.
