Separation.
I hate that word.
It seems so mild in comparison to what actually happens to
your entire being, while being forced apart from the one you pledged your life
to. The days after my husband moved out
were some of THE HARDEST DAYS. There
is no candy coating this season of my life.
I felt like God was ok with me trusting in His goodness and
faithfulness, and at the same time being incredibly sad and lost. Like He could handle that. And He did.
The kids and I were living with my parents, he was at an
apartment, our home was selling in another town, and we (he) was trying to work
out the details of what this new life was going to look like. It was around Christmas, and I remember an
especially rough day when he began the discussion of our children being with
him and his family for the day to celebrate…without
me. It was so surreal and
horrible. Our precious children had no
clue what was happening, and I was doing my best to keep their hearts free from
hurt, while answering their questions about why Daddy wasn’t sleeping at our
house. They cried for him and missed him
every bit as much as I did. We were a
mess.
The “not knowing” is just so tough. I was desperately crying out to God to heal
my marriage and bring my husband back to Him.
As I was worrying about how I would pay the bills and move in to my own
place, he was picking out furniture and shopping for cookware. He was starting over. He was very vague in talking to me, and if he
had anything to say to me it was usually over a quick email or phone call. He had built huge walls around his heart and
his life, and I was on the outside, running like crazy to find an opening to
make my way back in. Would we ever sleep
in the same bed again? Would we ever
travel again, which we enjoyed so much?
I did not know if I would be signing divorce papers. I did not know if our children would be
spending half of their lives apart from me.
There were just so many unanswered questions, and I was desperate to
find answers. Each day moved by so
slowly, but then the bombshell finally came.
I had to meet him at work one afternoon, and he told me he was going to
talk to an attorney about what it would take to file for divorce.
Divorce.
The other word I hate.
This was not my choice and actually was the last option I
was willing to be a part of. I told him
that if he wanted a divorce, then he would have to make all of the steps in the
awful direction. I was not going to
help him out in any way. He was on his
own.
And I cried. I cried
a lot.
A couple of nights after that conversation, I was out for a
cold walk around the track. I was
sobbing and asking God for direction and strength. I lay down on the stiff ground, and looked at
the stars through foggy eyes. I knew if
He was big enough to design and create the universe, then He could surely get
me through this. I have never felt His
deep presence as I did during those excruciating days and nights.
One evening, I was on the bedroom floor with my Bible open,
reading through Isaiah. The baby was
sleeping, so the room was dark and I was using my phone flashlight to see the
words. I looked up into the corner of the
room, and there was a blazing shield hanging in the air. It was so real, I was afraid of the heat that
should have been emanating from the flames.
Never again have I experienced anything like it. I felt assured that it was God giving me a powerful
sign of His protection over me. He was
fighting for me and with me, and this battle was not between my husband and
I. There was a spiritual war waging. What Satan wanted to destroy, God was fighting
to restore.
I had begged. I had
pleaded. I had used the best words I
knew to try to convince my husband he was wrong. All I had left was prayer. So I prayed.
And prayed. And
prayed. And prayed…
Written by An Anonymous Pastor's Wife
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