“Finally, my brethren, be strong in the Lord and in the power of His might. Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.
For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age, against spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places.
Therefore take up the whole armor of God, that you may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.
Stand therefore, having girded your waist with truth, having put on the breastplate of righteousness, and having shod your feet with the preparation of the gospel of peace; above all, taking the shield of faith with which you will be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked one. And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God; praying always with all prayer and supplication in the Spirit...” Eph. 6:10-18a
And having done all, to stand.
A great war has ended. It’s time to tell the story. I must admit, to my shame, to feeling an element of pride at my part in this story. I am, after all, a main character. The truth is, if it had been up to me alone, the story would be very different.
You may think that the battle is Him vs. Her. You wouldn’t be the first to make that mistake. Many have chosen what they thought was the right side, but their battle still rages. This is the fight of Love vs. Hate. Not against flesh and blood, but against spiritual hosts of wickedness. We are on the same side.
Once upon a time, boy meets girl. They marry and live happily ever after? Hardly. But what if... what if the greatest love came after the happily?
On September 9, 2009, my husband and I aimlessly wandered the shops at the Summit in Birmingham. On the verge of divorce, numb from the surprise and loss of an unplanned baby, we were desperately trying to salvage what we had left. It was our 9th anniversary, 9-9-09. We’d wanted to have fun with that date! Unfinished lists of 9 ideas lay abandoned at home. Nearby was the list of everything wrong. The night petered out and we went home.
That was our last anniversary. Not exactly the type of memorable evening we had in mind.
Within one month, Derek had packed his things and moved 30 minutes away. Words of anger spewed from my mouth to family’s ears. Fear, speculation, devastation, exaggeration, despair. To him, silence. I couldn’t look, I couldn’t talk.
We fumbled through our first days of school. My lifelong dream of being a homeschooling mom had come true and was crashing around me all at once. Twice a day I went behind closed doors to release built up sobs.
This is where the war began. With collapsing and moon-screaming1. With a flip-flopping heart, hating one day, loving the next.
During those first weeks, those worst weeks of my life, when my ripped-open heart was bleeding over every inch of my house, and my weeping womb was crying over the child it had already forgotten, and when I had to lock first my bedroom door, then my bathroom door, and fall on my closet floor so I could weep hard without my children knowing... I knew this was not all on Derek. It's not, it never has been, and it never will be. His sins are his own, and mine belong to me.
There was a moment when I fell to His feet, with the most vivid realization that I knew how the woman felt when she kissed our Lord, cleansing His precious body with her hair and her tears of deepest sorrow and thankfulness. I really, truly, even to this day, can feel that moment, feel the kiss of my lips to His feet and the failure of my own heart and the tenderness of His love.
I’ve had a lot of anger. Who wouldn’t? Who doesn’t?? The greatest proof of the union of marriage is the depth of pain at being torn apart. Everywhere, we see divorce rip hearts into jagged pieces. More often than not, they heal with thick, hard scars of hate, threatening to destroy our souls. We see innocent ones hurt more than anything. Our precious innocents, caught in the middle, used as pawns in the great power play of life. Do we really want to do the right thing? Is it even worth trying? Do I want to bother? Day after day, “Lord, please, please... help me to keep loving him or let him go.” I can’t live with flesh-eating bitterness. But I can’t do it. I can’t do the right thing. It’s too hard. What is the right thing, anyway?
I can’t think past a day at a time. Maybe a week. So much up and down. I cry, I pray, I smile, I move on, I cry again. The cycle goes round.
Morning by morning, He is faithful2. I cry that I can’t do it. I realize something. That old Footprints poem? I understand it now.
I can do nothing more than try. I fail, again and again and again. I want to say, "I forgive you," but I don't yet, because the hurricane still blows and the sapling still sways. The most I can summon is, "I am forgiving."
Morning by morning, He answers. To my surprise, He gives both loving and leaving. A new love, so softly and slowly, grows. It's a different love. A true love of sacrifice, perhaps. But the dying part of sacrifice sometimes feels like soul death. Death and life, all mingled into one. I gasp for air, kiss my children, chase them silly through the house, yell at them without reasonable cause, and glance at the note card on the fridge: “Bless, O Lord, and grant peace, for Thy name’s sake.”
Days have turned to months and the months crept into years. How has it been two years? Already? Is that all? During that time, I found a haven. A hospital for the dying soul. The fragrance of healing fills my lungs and I breathe deep. Leitourgia... the work of the people. All together... Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy. Can we ask for mercy too many times? I don’t think it’s possible. I know I need it every day. Day in, day out, breathe in, breathe out.