Good Man
Inspired by “Good Man” by India.Arie
Written by Joshua McDowell
Dear Naomi,
If the sun comes up and I’m not home… be strong.
I don’t want to start this letter with sadness, but I know you feel it in your bones—like I do. Every night under this desert sky, I think about you. About us. About the little miracle you’re carrying inside you. Our child. Our legacy. Our forever.
I remember the first day I met you. You wore that yellow sundress, and your laugh made my chest ache in a way that wasn’t pain but possibility. I didn’t believe in soulmates until you smiled at me like you already knew who I was. Like God had whispered it to you in a dream.
We were so young, so bold. We didn’t waste time. Fell in love fast. Moved even faster. The world said “slow down,” but our hearts had already decided. Love is so crazy—it gave us a baby. And then came the vows, and everything felt right.
You told me that night, “Should anything happen to you or me, promise me we won’t disappear from each other’s stories.”
I promised. I still do.
June 14th
Our Anniversary
I stood beneath our star tonight. The one we named “Ezekiel,” remember? You picked it because it means God will strengthen. I know you’re looking at it too, maybe with your hand on your belly, whispering to our son. That’s what I’m praying for. That somehow, even across all these miles, you feel me. That you know I’m still holding your heart.
If fate doesn’t let me come home, know I’m at peace. My love didn’t end here. True love doesn’t end.
A few months later...
Naomi stood at the window, her swollen belly cradled in her arms, staring at the sky. The knock on the door that morning changed everything. A folded flag. A final salute. A letter in a sealed envelope, smudged with her husband's fingerprint in the corner.
She read it once. Twice. A hundred times.
Then came the day when their son—bright-eyed, curious, only four—pointed to a photo of a man in uniform smiling wide and said, “Mama, where is he?”
Naomi’s voice trembled. “That’s your daddy, baby.”
“Why are you crying?”
She knelt, held his small hands, and whispered, “Because he lived for you. And he died for you. And he loved you more than anything in this world.”
The boy touched the frame, and Naomi knew what she had to do.
Every night, she told him stories.
About a man who carried love in his chest like a compass.
Who wrote poems in sandstorms and prayers in the wind.
Who kissed her before leaving, and said, “I’ll always find my way back to you.”
She told him:
“Your daddy… was a good man.”
And under that same star, years later, her son would whisper to the sky,
“I remember, Mama. I remember.”
THE END
