by Donna Bordelon Alder
Jenna (not her real name) was one of the most beautiful women I had ever met. Her fine eyes moved easily into a warm smile and a lovely toss of blond hair curved around the flawless skin of her face and neck. Graceful and slender, she laughed easily and for that reason, I felt she must be happy with life. Although I did not know her well, we had exchanged pleasantries in the lunch line at a pastors' retreat and had chatted on other district occasions. One could not miss her beauty, and her quiet charm — which I mistook for a quiet spirit. Her husband pastored a modest church in a large, neighboring city and, from all appearances, loved her dearly.
On a white, northeast winter Sunday, while her children and husband were in church, she committed suicide in the parsonage.
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