I was not at all where I wanted to be at 42 years old. I had wanted to be happily married, with a large family of well-adjusted children: a beacon of hope and courage to other families struggling to live God’s design for family. I wanted to be a testimony of God’s grace and goodness, and of the beauty of a life lived according to God’s plan.
But instead, I had failed.
My life had become a shame and disgrace to the beauty of Who God is. My marriage was falling apart, and I was left clinging to a life-preserver in the middle of a vast ocean of pain and confusion, disillusioned and angry. Angry that God had failed me. Angry that what I had thought were His promises had been empty and worthless. Angry that I had been betrayed yet again by Someone I’d trusted. Disillusioned because it seemed that the very foundations of all I’d been taught from childhood were shattered and crumbling.
And I was confused, because I’d done everything right.
Sure, I’d made mistakes – I’m human. But I had lived a very dedicated Christian life, fully surrendered to God’s will, making those wrongs right in every way possible, as soon as I became aware of them. My goal was to bring honor and glory to God, even if that meant suffering.
I had exhausted all my resources to live according to God’s Word in everything: submitting whole-heartedly (first) to my father and (then) to my husband, as well as other authorities God had put in my life, because I believed that was God’s way. I had chosen to respect them and their wishes, even when their motives were questionable, just as I believed Jesus would have done in my shoes.
Part of living for God’s honor and glory, I believed, was to endure hardship as a good soldier of Jesus Christ, blessing those who cursed me, praying for those who despitefully used me, returning good for evil, and suffering without complaint whatever God had called me to endure. That was what Jesus had done, wasn’t it? I wasn’t doing it for reward of any kind, or so I told myself. I was doing it for God’s honor and glory, and I believed that, even if I didn’t see fruit in this life, one day in heaven, I’d see the bigger picture and all God was trying to accomplish through my life.
But now, that hope was shattered. Hard as I had tried, I had been a failure. As a Christian and as a wife. After all, my marriage was falling apart, and everyone knows that any Christian woman should be able to make any marriage a success, or so I’d been told.
And I had failed as a mom. My children were struggling through their own traumas, and I was so entangled in mine that I didn’t have the strength or knowledge to help them through theirs. They were constantly fighting among themselves, constantly disrespectful, and constantly getting into conflict with others. Worse, when they needed me to mediate, comfort them, or give them direction, I couldn’t summon enough strength to be there for them in the ways
they needed me most. Instead, I’d just zone out and become lost in my own safe little dream world, where I was the successful Christian testimony I dreamed of.
I had even failed as a housekeeper. My house was in complete disarray, littered with clutter, and filthy to the last corner. Layers of dust and grime were everywhere but in the main areas where we lived. The sticky remnants of meals many days past coated the table and chairs. My laundry was often piled up, either dirty or waiting to be folded, depending at which stage it happened to be; dishes were almost always waiting in the sink until there were no more to be used. Then we’d finally wash just enough for the meal at hand. When we moved from one house to another, I was embarrassed for the church ladies to see how unsuccessful I’d been in keeping a tidy home. I couldn’t avoid seeing the whispered conversations that would come to an abrupt halt when I’d enter the room. Sure enough, a letter I received from one of them a short time later confirmed it all: I was a big failure on all counts.
I was crushed and wanted nothing more than to run away from it all and start over where no one knew me. But I couldn’t leave my children. They needed me.
I had lived in a fog most of the last couple of years, where I couldn’t recall simple things even two hours after they happened, and I forgot important things like paying a bill on time or a doctor appointment. My husband often mocked me in a sing-song voice, calling me “Oh, Honey, I forgot!”
So at 42, here I was with a failing marriage, failing family, failed testimony, and failed promises. It was time to try to sort out where I’d gone wrong. How had I gotten here, and what needed to change?
Over the years, without saying so in so many words, people had made me feel like there was something “off” about my family, my siblings, and me. All these years, I had disregarded their observations as just ignorance of all we’d been through. Since I often had nothing specific to analyze, I would take it to God, and ask Him to clarify if there was something I needed to be aware of: something I needed to change. Now, I began to wonder if there might be truth in what they had noticed. My failed marriage made me question everything I’d ever been taught, everything I’d ever believed… I was in constant dialog with God about all this.
With His guidance, I began at the beginning, in my childhood, sorting out what I’d been taught and what lay at the heart of these teachings.
What were the core beliefs I’d been taught as truth, and were they actually truth? How had they shaped who I had become, and more importantly, how had they shaped my perspective of God?
Who was God, anyway? I needed to know if He was good like He says He is, and I needed to know if I could rely on Him at all as I climbed out of this unrelenting mire. If I couldn’t rely on Him, I had nothing else to cling to. Without Him, there was no more hope.
I had seen Him answer so many prayers that I knew He was real – or had it been my imagination? Had He forgotten me? Had I somehow disappointed Him, and He’d turned His back on me? I had to know.
And so began one of the hardest, most wonderful journeys I’ve ever undertaken…