I was determined from the day the news went public that I did not want to act in a way that would hurt my own testimony or embarrass my kids. I prayed almost constantly for God to help me maintain strength and dignity. I held my head up and made eye contact, even when that meant seeing the questions or pity in people’s eyes. I tried to remain approachable, even when that meant complete strangers asked hurtful things about my business. It was understandable. A person in a very public role had shocked this little town. I wasn’t the only one hurting. I could see it in their faces when they spoke at the ballpark or at end-of-school-year events. Sometimes I would tear up during conversation. Sometimes they would. It was hard and it was public and it was real.
The kids’ lives went on. Spring Flings, awards programs, 4th and 8th grade graduations. All hard. When I sobbed at the boys’ graduations, they assumed it was because I have trouble letting them grow up. They had no idea that I was heartbroken inside, knowing that their dad sitting next to me was leaving in a few days. He had already found an apartment. He would tell them soon.
In those last weeks before he left, I was an emotional disaster. I wanted to reconcile but I didn’t want to keep feeling so rejected. I wanted to go on with life, but I didn’t want to live that way. I was willing to press forward and keep fighting to save our marriage if he gave any hint at being willing to fight with me. He just didn’t give any hint at being willing to fight with me. He openly declared the opposite.
I would hope every morning for God’s intervention and a miraculous turn of events, but by night time I would be so discouraged that I would dread living another day feeling the way I felt. I was worried for the pregnancy and the health of the baby if things didn’t change while he was home. I was worried for my boys’ hearts when he left home.
Sometimes I would wonder if it was time to stop grasping so hard and just let go. Then I would fear it was Satan attacking the marriage from my side, trying to get me to give up, and I would try to grasp harder. I knew I had biblical grounds for divorce, but I was convinced saving the marriage and our family was God-honoring.
I believed the man I knew and loved was still in there, but he was not who lived in my house those last few weeks. I would point out my concern that he was no longer acting like the person I had known for so long. He would say that he had never felt more like himself. I could not make sense of it.
I saw him as the prodigal. Leaving life with the Father to experience what the world had to offer. The interesting thing about that story is that when the prodigal asked to receive his inheritance early, essentially saying to the father in that culture and time, “I prefer your money to you; I wish you were dead,” his dad didn’t try to talk him out of it or make him see the risk involved. He just gave the son his portion of the wealth. I believe it was because the dad knew the son had to see for himself what he had with the father to appreciate and return to it. Scripture doesn’t tell us if the dad mourned his son’s leaving or worried about his safety. We don’t read about whether it broke his heart to hear rumor that his son made poor choices or if it wrecked him to hear that his boy was so desperate that he longed for pig slop.
We don’t know how long the son was gone. We don’t know if he felt prickles of conviction along the way or if he was in a fog until he found himself in the pig sty. It’s possible he turned back for home due to starvation and disparity and didn’t feel real repentance until the father’s love overwhelmed him on the road.
When I read the story, I imagine a short period of time, when it could have been years. Maybe I see it this way because my human mind can’t fathom standing, watching expectantly for years or having endless grace, but thankfully God is not like humanity. He is long-suffering, gracious, merciful, and good. He meets sinners on the road and celebrates their return home.
When the father saw his son – probably haggard, thin, and dirty – coming up the road toward home, he tore out running to meet him. He grabbed him and held him close. He threw a party to celebrate that his boy had come home. He didn’t scold the son for riotous living. He just graciously embraced him, welcoming him back.
I felt like if I was ever going to get my husband back, I had to let him leave. He not only had broken covenant with me but with God also. God wanted a restored relationship even more than I did, so I believed He would allow my husband to reach a pig slop moment, when he would realize how he’d hurt the Father and would turn back to Him. I knew no other relationship could be right till that happened, and I trusted that when he returned to the Father, he’d return home. To us.
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Two years later, I still pray every day for my ex-husband’s relationship with the Father, but I’ve come to accept that a return to the Father does not mean a return “home”. The physical home we had is no longer ours. The feeling of home I felt in our marriage is gone. The man I knew is a memory, and this man is someone else’s husband. BUT he is still and forever will be the father of my children, and there is hope that the Father will mend what’s been broken between them and their daddy. Their beautiful hearts are probably the most God-like things I know – full of love, compassion, and grace – meeting their dad with open arms at every visit.
“But when he came to his senses,
he said, “How many of my father’s
hired men have more than enough
bread, but I am dying here with hunger!
I will get up and go to my father and will
say to him, “Father, I have sinned
against heaven and in your sight;
I am no longer worthy to be called
your son; make me as one of
your hired men.” And he got up
and came to his father. But while he
was still a long way off, his father
saw him and felt compassion for him
and ran and embraced him and kissed him.”
Luke 15:17-20
