the one where i whine

Most people assume I'm further along in my story than I actually am. I'm still right in the thick of it, in ways no one will fully comprehend. Most don't realize that I'm not actually divorced yet. The shortest, most tactful reason is that my husband continues to make choices that are hurtful not only to me but also to our ministry. And so it lingers on, hanging over me like a dark cloud, every single day. So while some people think (and have gone so far as to say) that I should be able to move forward more than I have, I simply can't. The cloud has created an inescapable darkness that renders me paralyzed. Powerless. Lifeless. The darkness scares away hope. It blurs my vision. It heightens my pain. It makes me realize just how alone I am.

Alone is quite possibly the worst feeling in the world.

It squeezes my chest so tight, I can no longer breathe. When I feel I couldn't possibly have any tears left, it somehow finds more.

I'm sure my back-and-forthness must be driving everyone crazy. Or at least making them roll their eyes. I'm so over me, I can only imagine everyone else is too.

I know I waver back and forth, at times literally drowning in my lonely ache and other times trying to buck myself up and rally my faith. I know what I should feel, I know what God says, I can hear the non-stop loop in my head of all I should be doing to "get over this" or move forward or whatever. But as hard as I try to cling to those things, that cloud envelops me still.

Today I desperately miss being half of an "us".

For purely selfish reasons.

No longer a "we" means no longer having a someone to talk with through decisions I need to make. It means not having a someone to help make sense of my crazy thoughts. It means not having a someone who cares about how I spend my days, where I am, what I'm doing, how I'm feeling.

I know I have a myriad of someones in my friends, but that's not the same as having my someone.

And today I could really use a someone...

hope again

I'm sure you're familiar with this story. But bear with me for a moment... Mary and Martha's brother was sick, and they sent word to Jesus to let Him know.

"When He heard this, Jesus said, 'This sickness will not end in death. No, it is for God's glory so that God's Son may be glorified through it.' Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. Yet when He heard that Lazarus was sick, He stayed where He was two more days... On His arrival, Jesus found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb..."

Jesus had told his disciples that "this sickness will not end in death". And yet... Lazarus died.

We have the benefit of knowing how the story progressed from there---that Lazarus would be raised from the dead---but no one there did.

All they knew was that Lazarus died. And that Jesus could've healed him---that He even implied He would---and yet He didn't...

In those moments, I'm sure it was impossible for them to imagine that "will not end in death" could possibly still be true. Lazarus was dead, for crying out loud.

But even still, Jesus' words were truth. And everyone eventually saw them come to pass when Lazarus was resurrected.

Smack in the middle of the story though, while they were all grieving the death of their friend, Jesus spoke some words that make me stop breathing for a moment:

"For your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe..."

He was talking about the fact that He hadn't been there to heal Lazarus before he died. "I am glad I was not there..." Wha? He's glad His friend died? He's glad his sisters' hearts broke in grief? He's glad??!!

"For your sake... so that you may believe... it is for God's glory..."

Often what God does and allows in my life does not make sense to me. Yet His promise is that it's for my good and His glory. Even when it doesn't seem like it.

Even when death has already sunk its teeth in. Hard.

In those moments, He still says "I am glad... for your sake." And while that pains my heart in so many ways as I think about my life right now, I want to believe there is pure love in that statement.

I'm no longer hoping that I'll be spared from the agonizing pain of my journey. I'm not asking to be saved from the fiery furnace... because I'm already in it. I've been in it for a long time.

I want to believe that it "won't end in death" even though death is already here.

I want to believe that He loves making beauty from ashes, life out of brokenness, and a new beginning where there is nothing but finality.

I want to somehow find hope again.

Not in rescue, but in resurrection.

being held

You know what I miss? Being held.

I'm not the most physically affectionate person. Well, I am with certain people... which I guess makes me selectively affectionate.

But there are moments, days even, when I just wish there was someone to hold me. To tangle up with me on the couch as we watch a movie. To sit near to me so at least some part of us is touching. To hug me long and tight, for no reason at all.

Longing for that makes me feel vulnerable.

Admitting it makes me feel even more vulnerable.

And I don't fully know why.

But, well, there it is.

No spiritual analogy. No lesson from the Lord. No correlating scripture.

Just the missing of my heart.

What's your deepest, most honest, miss?

a day like this

Ever have a day force itself on you like an unwanted telemarketer? Today is one of those days.

It's unavoidable really. Maybe in a few years it will slip by, barely noticed... but even that's not likely. The jarring interruption, how it causes my breath to catch in my throat... that will eventually subside. But I will always remember.

How could I not?

We celebrated his birthday together for 11 years.

This is the second one apart.

And I can't help but be painfully aware today of all I've lost... all I grieve... all I miss. It's everywhere. All around me. All inside me. Constant.

Yet... it isn't as sharp as last year. It doesn't linger like it did. It doesn't ache quite so deeply. And for that I am grateful.

It's only in these mile markers that I even notice my own heart's progress. It's nearly impossible to see as the mountains and valleys of my journey rise and fall day to day.

The process of putting one foot in front of the other looks blurringly the same. Step... step... step...

But today I have a glimpse of a signpost from a year ago. And mixed in with the bittersweetness of the day is a strange sigh of relief. Dare I call it hope? I don't know... Ask me in a few hours...

This much I know is true: There is both a joy and sadness in remembering.

And I'm okay with that.

friendships lost

My heart hurts tonight for friends I've lost. And after spending hours looking at pictures, stalking websites, and wiping my tears, I'm hoping my heart will find solace with some words... When my husband walked away, so did some friends.

Some, I think, simply didn't know what to say, so they chose to say nothing. And they still say nothing.

Some, I think, felt uncomfortable because of their continued friendship with Niel. As if it had to be one or the other.

Some, I think, made assumptions rather than asked questions, So they passed judgments about me, my character, and my heart.

Some... I don't know that I'll ever understand what happened or why. They're just... gone.

And it hurts. Deeply.

Tonight I let myself feel it. I let the tears come for friendships lost... For histories that seem to be washed away by futures that will never be... For not knowing if the missing is mutual... For what was... For what is...

Tonight I talked to God about it---about them---for maybe the first time. And I asked Him to help me trust Him with this, even though---or maybe, because---I don't understand it.

Tonight I'm trying choosing to "rejoice with those who rejoice". They all seem very happy, and I want to simply be happy with and for them.

Tonight my heart is letting go... And saying goodbye to those I never got a chance to.

And I pray I never stop loving. Stop letting people in. Stop trusting. Stop showing my heart.

Because I know love isn't love if there's no risk involved.

love without a red bow

I've gotta be honest... My heart is battle-weary. Fifteen months after my husband left me and our ministry for another woman, I am just plain tired of everything being a fight. Every. Single. Thing. And I simply don't have any fight left in me. I reached my breaking point this morning when yet another nasty email showed up in my inbox, and I had a good-ol-fashioned meltdown.

But in the midst of my tears, I became keenly aware of God's messy love. I was reminded that His love isn't always neatly wrapped with a red bow. In fact, it's usually eyebrow-raising in its packaging. It's often more gritty than glorious. He loves us recklessly, and it shows up in alarming and obscure ways.

Like in drops of blood streaming down a wooden cross.

God's scandalous love is just as present here in my hurting as it will be in my healing. It's in my brokenness as much as my wholeness, in my doubting as well as my faith. I just need to look for it. And expect to be caught off-guard by what it might look like.

A coffee date with a new friend this afternoon showed me a glimpse of God's love in how He’s using my story---even as it’s still being written---to strengthen others. He's making life out of my brokenness, using my ashes to create something beautiful.

And He's not waiting until I'm "better" to start. He's doing it right now, smack in the middle of my big hot mess. Even on a day when I threw my hands in the air and cried, "I'm done!"

My threadbare heart can't miss the irrational love in that.

It's messy and unreasonable... Just the way He likes it.

the other woman

My life has been forever changed by the other woman. She worked with me at our ministry in Africa. She was a close friend whom I’d known and loved for a long time. And when she and my husband chose to step into a relationship with each other, my entire life changed. Forever.

Since then, I’ve been deeply impacted by other other women. But in completely different ways.

Two of my closest friends have lived on the opposite side of my story. They were both someone else’s other woman.

I hadn’t even realized the divine paradox of our friendships until others asked me if it’s ever hard for me. That’s when I began to fully see and appreciate the beautiful uniqueness of what we have.

In all honesty, it isn’t weird for me. It isn’t difficult or hurtful to be friends with these women.

Because when I look at them, I don’t see a scarlet letter. I don’t hold their past against them. Nor do I hold against them their very-different present of restored marriages.

I respect, admire, and trust them.

When I look at them, I see amazing grace personified. They are living, breathing, huggable reflections of God’s relentless heart.

They’ve changed me. Forever.

Through their transparency in both their brokenness and their healing. Through their rich wisdom, borne from the deepest of heartache. Through their tenacity in doing the hard work of rebuilding trust and relationships.

Our lives are mirror images of each other---our histories uniquely similar, yet altogether different. And I am so grateful for them. It is such an incredible gift to be able to journey together with these women.

Without even a single word, they make me live more aware of my own need for grace, and they gently challenge me to extend it recklessly.

Just as it’s been extended to me.

faith in the key of plan b

I've experienced God's miraculous power in my lifetime. I've seen His divine protection and provision. I've watched Him do incredible things. But when my life crumbled around my feet a couple years ago, what God can do and what He was doing didn't line up.

God could have stopped my husband from cheating on me. He could have changed his mind about leaving me for the other woman. He could have saved my marriage, protected our ministry, and kept my heart from the deepest pain I've ever endured. He could have. But He didn't.

And I realized something simple yet extraordinary.

There's a difference between faith in what God can do and faith in who God is.

From my microscopic vantage point, it often seems like God's actions and inactions---what He allows---aren't consistent with His character. But I can't see the big picture from my tiny corner in the vastness of eternity.

Because the truth is, His character never changes. No matter what I'm experiencing in my life, God is loving, faithful, and trustworthy. He is just and merciful. He is Healer and Redeemer. And He doesn’t waste a thing.

Nothing---neither the best nor the worst that I’ve known---is wasted. Ever. Everything can be made new. Everything can be made whole. Everything can be redeemed.

Nothing is wasted.

Even when it doesn't appear that way right now.

My faith is supposed to be about much more than trusting Him to make everything work out according to my "perfect plan".

After all, He is more concerned about my holiness than my happiness.

So while life continues to unfold very differently than I'd ever imagined, I want to live with active trust in who He is, even in the midst of pain and brokenness.

Easier said than done, I know. The only way I can even think about making this shift is in moment-by-moment decisions of faith.

So right now, I'm choosing to anchor myself in the unmovable bedrock of God's character.

And trusting that what feels like Plan B (or maybe Plan F) is really His best for me.

Originally a guest post at Refine Us >

i am still standing

A year ago today, I heard those fateful words. "I've made my decision. I want a divorce."

I knew it before he said it.

I actually knew it months before he said it.

But still... Hearing him say it out loud...

The words fell like heavy stones, pinning me down. The air seemed to be sucked out from all around me. The sobs came quick and forceful. I could barely catch my breath as I scrambled to get out of the car.

It felt like I'd imploded.

Up until that moment, his words and his actions were never aligned. Now that they were, the fears and insecurities inside me seemed to solidify even more.

Every day I struggle with feeling unlovable and unwantable.

I battle the fears of abandonment and rejection.

I fight thoughts of being dispensable and replaceable.

I have days (moments, really) when my heart feels free from the death-grip of those messages. But this week---today---the weight of it all feels heavy and burdensome.

Yet despite the painful significance of this day, I am still standing. And I know that is no small thing.

Though the burden I carry feels unbearably heavy, I know I don't carry it alone.

I'm choosing today to let Him do the heavy lifting. He is "God our Savior, who daily bears our burdens." He can handle it just fine.

I'm aware of the veritable army of in-His-image burden bearers that surrounds me. We are told to "carry each other's burdens", and I have so many who are helping to carry mine.

Every prayer whispered and encouraging word spoken (or written), lifts a few pounds off my shoulders. Makes it easier for me to breathe. Helps me stay standing.

While there is much weighing on me, there is also much strengthening me.

As I take a deep breath, I realize that the weight of it all doesn't feel heavy and burdensome like I first thought.

It's surprisingly light and easy to bear when I remember that I am not alone.

the greatest regret of my life

Those months of being emotionally beaten and battered changed me. They turned me into someone I despise. Someone who is gripped by far too much fear.

I became scared to death of sudden changes in my relationships. I doubt people's intentions, trustworthiness, and loyalty. I fear that those I love and hold close are going to leave or replace me. I don't believe that I'm worth loving, even when others say I am.

Those four months left me indelibly scarred.

And in those fleeting moments when I am completely honest with myself, I am forced to admit:

I wish I'd loved myself enough to get out.

Somewhere in that four month period, I should have made the choice to leave.

But I was too afraid.

Afraid of the people who wouldn't understand my decision. Afraid of being alone. Afraid of not being the good, Godly wife. Afraid to stand up for me.

And while I knew what I would have told anyone else in my position, I couldn't bring myself to make that same decision for me.

So I stayed in a situation that was harmful and unhealthy. I allowed him to continue his cruel and intentional abuse of my heart.

I sacrificed me for the sake of us.

An us that didn't even exist anymore. An us that he'd walked away from a long time ago. An us that was an ideal rather than a reality.

While I ultimately desired restoration in my marriage, I shouldn't have clung to that hope at the detriment of my own heart.

Because it just about ruined me.

My greatest regret is that I didn't value myself enough to leave.

And yet I can't help but wonder...

If I were back in that position right now, knowing what I do, would I be able to make the hard choice to get out?

I honestly don't know...

Abuse (of any kind) is manipulative, controlling, and strangely "comfortable" like that.

And that leaves me feeling sick inside.

a living hell

The past few years have been, by far, the worst of my entire life. But my husband's infidelity wasn't the most painful part. Nor was the eighteen months of lies, or hearing him say he was leaving me for good.

The most agonizing part of it all is something I have difficulty explaining.

The four months from when his affair was exposed until he voiced his decision for divorce were unequivocally the most painful I've ever lived through.

He planned to leave me months before he made it official. And as I hung on, wanting to see our marriage restored, he deliberately and willfully messed with my heart.

He kept me on a string like a yo-yo, bouncing between two extremes. He'd push me away and then pull me back again. He'd tell me one day that he was willing to do the hard work of repairing trust and rebuilding our marriage, and the next that he'd never loved me to begin with.

Those months were a living hell for me.

I've blocked out many of the details of that time, but I recently read back through some emails I'd sent friends during those months.

And I was horrified by what I read.

Horrified.

Being reminded of how cruelly I was treated made me sick to my stomach.

There aren't words that can do justice to the pain my heart endured at the hands of my husband. The English language simply doesn't run deep enough for that.

I wouldn't wish those things on anyone.

Not even the other woman.

Because no one should ever have to experience what I lived through in those months.

This week my heart is tender. I'm remembering. Hurting. Grappling.

But my heart is also grateful. Because I'm stronger.

And I'm free.

bittersweet

Most of my friends are married. That's just what happens when you're married for 9 years. Even when you suddenly... aren't.

I love my married friends. Love them.

But if I'm being most honest, it's bittersweet to spend time with them and their husbands.

The Sweet--- I enjoy their men and have a blast when we're all together. I love watching my friends come alive in unique ways when they are with their husbands. I find joy in observing their interactions, of seeing the love between them in the smallest of things: unconscious gestures, a kiss on the top of her head, a hand-hold, him unloading the dishwasher while she cooks. I love seeing my friends treated well.

The Bitter--- I am painfully aware of what I don't have, of what I've lost. I ache even for things I now realize I never had to begin with. It makes me miss so much. I miss being held. I miss having endless history and still so much to discover. I miss having someone to call mine who loves calling me his.

I hesitate to say any of this because I don't want people to be self-conscious in front of me.

Just this weekend I shared these thoughts out loud with a married friend for the very first time.

I also told her that I don't want her to change anything.

I don't want people to walk on eggshells when I'm around or be less affectionate with their spouses.

Because there are moments when the bitter and the sweet collide in a beautiful symphony that leaves me hopeful.

I become hopeful for what could be, for what might be. I become hopeful to see and understand how I deserve to be treated. I become hopeful that I may get to experience that someday.

So, married friends, don't change anything when I'm with you and your husband.

And, single friends, listen closely for that beautiful symphony of hope when you're around married couples.

It's right there in the bittersweet.

the death of dreams

I don't understand why we’re allowed to dream dreams that will never be. But we are.

And we do.

I've heard it said---and have even said it myself---that God wouldn't give us passions and dreams, and then not fulfill them. I used to swallow that whole, but I don't really believe it to be true any more.

Once you factor in free will, sin, and natural consequences, there is no way every hope, dream, and longing can be fulfilled.

Even when we do everything "right", life simply isn't fair. For reasons we may never understand this side of heaven, not every prayer is answered and not every dream comes to pass.

Consider a little league baseball tournament where boys on both teams dream of winning the championship.

You dream of a promotion at work. So do three co-workers who are competing with you for the position.

I dreamed of a restored marriage, while my husband dreamed of a new life with another woman.

It is simply not possible for every dream to come true.

I've had to come to terms with that truth in my life. It sucks. And it hurts. And I'm not totally sure what to do with it.

All my deferred hope has left my heart sick.

I miss those dreams that will never be. I miss the future that is no longer possible. I miss what could be and should be, but won't be.

I have to surrender those to God, trusting that even when it doesn't seem like it, He has my highest good and His maximum glory in mind.

I'm wrestling with the balance between surrender and hope.

I want to live surrendered---fully embracing what I'm given, rather than longing for what I'm not.

And I want to live with hope---faithfully trusting God's promises and believing Him for what I cannot see.

But how do I do both at the same time?

How do I hope while embracing what I'm given?

iMiss

My heart is tender these days. I miss people I love. I miss things I value and places I cherish. I miss hope, security, roots. I miss a sense of home and a feeling of being someone's someone.

I also find myself missing people I've never met and things I've never had.

Does that sound crazy? Maybe it does. But I know it to be true.

It is possible to miss what I've never experienced.

Almost as much as I miss what I have experienced.

Sometimes the aches are similar. And equally deep.

Sometimes they are so intertwined I can't separate them.

Sigh...

What do you miss?

maybe this is my new normal

I still choose indoors over outdoors, even on a gorgeous day. I still come to life when I talk about vision, passion, and Africa. I still make strange faces (and noises) without even realizing it. I still love deeply.

For the most part, I'm still the same me I was before my world shattered out from under my feet.

For the most part.

But there are a lot of ways I'm a different person than I was before my husband left me.

Emotional trauma changes us.

It changed me.

My life is forever split between before and after.

And after-me isn't the same as before-me.

Some of the changes are healthy, good, freeing.

But many aren't.

I "lived tired" before, but I still kept a fast (and full) rhythm in life and ministry. Now I simply don't have the energy to keep even half that pace. I've taken living tired to a whole new level while doing far less in a day than I've ever done.

My heart is more tender and my skin is less thick. Things that shouldn't hurt me, hurt me. My emotions are all over the place. I can spiral from high to low very quickly. And that scares me for a long list of reasons I'll never be able to share in this space.

Trust has always been the Achilles' heel of my life. But now I physically feel the fear of trusting in a way I can't even begin to describe.

I get overwhelmed far easier. By to-do lists, emails, appointments, the pile of books I want to read... everything. It all just overwhelms me. And by overwhelm, I mean incapacitate.

I tell people I have Fuzzy Brain Syndrome. I lose my concentration. I'm constantly distracted. I can't remember things---things I should remember. Things I want to remember. I so often can't even think of the word I'm trying to say. Not just occasionally. Frequently.

I'm just not the same person I used to be.

And, to be honest, I don't like who I've become.

I'm living with diminished capacity.

It's frightening, frustrating, angering, and crazy-making all at the same time.

And I'm starting to think it might not be temporary.

Maybe this isn't something I can bounce back from.

Maybe this is my new normal.

Which means I need to face yet another loss.

The loss of ... me.

Of who I am. How I am.

Before I can accept who I've become, I need to grieve the loss of who I was.

I need to let go of before-me.

And trust that God can still make something beautiful out of after-me.

the double standard of my heart

For months I've been praying for my husband's heart to return to the Lord. For Niel to feel the conviction of the Holy Spirit.

For the consequences of his decisions and actions to open his eyes to how deceived he's become.

For him to hit rock bottom.

For God to do whatever it takes to get his attention.

But if I'm being most honest, I wasn't as concerned with Niel's repentance as I was with him feeling the weight of what he's done.

The reality is that I sometimes still want him to hurt like I've hurt, more than I want him to live forgiven and free.

I've had to come face-to-face with the double-standard of my heart.

Because my struggle to genuinely pray not only for Niel's repentance but also for his forgiveness really only means one thing---

I don't realize just how much I've been forgiven for.

I want to accept the work of the cross for my sins, but not for my husband's.

As if my sins have been lesser.

Or even fewer.

When they are neither.

"...God's kindness leads you toward repentance."

I remember gasping out loud when I saw that verse as if with new eyes.

And I've wrestled with Him long and hard over the implications of it.

It has taken me a very long time to get to this point, but I've begun praying---with tear-filled eyes still---for God's kindness to lead Niel to repentance.

I've started asking God to smother him with His goodness and grace and mercy.

Some days it's easier to pray that way than others.

Some days I can't at all.

On those days, I just sit in the reality of what it truly means.

And I pray for God's kindness to lead me to repentance.

Originally a guest post over at In Progress >

i'm still not sure about this one

I meet new people all the time. And there's often a point in the conversation that goes something like this:

OPTION A Them: Where are you from? Me: New York. Them: How'd you end up in Atlanta? Me: Well...

OPTION B Them: What do you do? Me: I'm the founder of a ministry in Africa. Them: Oh wow. What are you doing in Atlanta? Me: Well...

OPTION C A variation of A or B.

And then I have to try to follow the "Well..." with some sort of explanation.

It's got me thinking about the words I use to sum up my current life situation.

I'm short and sweet and to the point. I certainly don't unload my two-and-a-half-year heartache on them.

I don't answer with bitterness or anger or resentment. There is sadness in my words, for sure. There's grief in my eyes.

And I simply state the facts.

But now I'm wondering if I still say more than I actually should.

My six-sentence answer usually includes:

1. I've been married for 9 years.
2. My husband and I ran a ministry in Africa.
3. He had an affair.
4. He decided he wants a divorce.
5. I'm living in Georgia for a season of restoration.
6. I'll be going back to Africa.

And all of that is true.

But I wonder if I'm hiding behind #s 3 and 4. Because I feel like I have to mention the affair and point out that he left me.

But I wonder what my motive is.

My unconscious thought in that moment is that simply saying I'm going through a divorce leaves the question of why. And they might think I cheated. Or assume I'm the one who chose to leave.

So I seemingly take on a defensive position right from the get-go. I fight to maintain my image right from the start.

And maybe I shouldn't.

Isn't that just plain ol' ugly arrogance? Or at the very least, insecurity?

The fact that I am the head of a ministry adds to the complexity of this for me. I don't want people to wonder who left who when I'm asking them to trust me to lead Thrive.

But maybe I need to let truth speak for itself.

And let God defend me.

Right from the get-go.

I don't know. I'm still trying to figure this one out.

thinking about NYE...

New Year's Eve 2007 was hard for me. My husband's affair started six months before, and I'd reached my breaking point. His denial, lies, and painful guilt trips drove me deep into depression. And nobody had a clue what was going on.

This much I know is true: Suffering in silence amplifies pain.

That December 31st, my heart was exhausted. I stared into the midnight sky and begged God for things to be different in the new year. Something's gotta give! And I wanted so badly to believe it would.

I tried desperately to cling to the hope that things would change for the better.

But they only got worse on the slippery slope of '08.

New Year's Eve 2008 was even harder than the one before. I'd finally pulled the cord and exposed my husband's affair, and the bottom fell out of my world.

That December 31st, my heart was aching. I cried myself to sleep, begging God for wholeness, restoration in my marriage, and strength to keep going. Something's gotta give!

Hope was harder to come by, but I still believed things would get better. They had to. They couldn't get any worse.

Or so I thought.

Less than three months later, my husband told me he wanted a divorce.

Sigh...

This December 31st, my heart will still be aching. But not as much as it was. I'll still be in a place of hardship and hurting. But the nights aren't as dark as they used to be.

My heart still pleads, Something's gotta give! But if I quiet my soul and listen closely, I can hear the creaks and cracks of the levee starting to break.

2010's gonna be the best year I've had in a long time.

more painful than adultery

My husband's affair devastated me. But not as much as his deception did. For a year and a half, he lied every single day. Not only to me, but also to our team of staff and interns. When I think of the sheer magnitude of dishonesty he used to cover up his unfaithfulness, I can barely breathe.

I wish I could say that the lies stopped when he was caught.

But I can't.

I think the web of deception grew so thick that he could no longer tell truth from lies. He deceived others so much that he became deceived himself.

It wrecks my heart that he was never forthcoming with the truth. It had to be coerced out of him. Literally.

The day after Thanksgiving, when confronted with undeniable proof, my husband confessed to what he called "an emotional affair". I knew that wasn't all it was, so I continued to ask questions and challenge his justifications. Even after I left South Africa for counseling here in the States. And even though he told me my distrust was making it impossible to move forward.

Late one night, while I was here and he was there, I questioned him yet again as we chatted online. And he finally admitted that it was a full-blown affair.

That was a year ago today.

The blatant, ongoing deception hurts far more than the adultery. And it remains the most painful and difficult part of my own journey of healing.

It's why trust is so shaky.

And why doubt comes so easily.

It's also why I'll never stop asking the Lord to help me live a life marked by unshakable integrity.

my deepest fear

I'm deeply afraid of being a burden. Yet sadly, I've lived most of my life feeling as though I am one. And I hate it. The fear is so deep, so strong, that it's shaped who I am.

Putting my own wants and needs before someone else's, makes me feel like an imposition. And even though I know it isn't true, part of me still clings to the thought that I can avoid being a burden to others if I put them first.

My fear is the reason for my indecisiveness. It explains my aversion to voice an opinion. It's why I'm hesitant to assert myself. All of those things are (futile) attempts to keep from feeling like a burden.

It's a tiring way to live.

The moment I feel burdensome, I start freaking out inside. I hate feeling as though I've become work. So I start scrambling. I apologize; I try to fix things; I'll do just about anything to make things right.

All in an attempt to lighten the load of me.

Because ultimately, my deepest fear is abandonment.

When I start feeling that I've become work for someone, my brain (or is it my heart?) tells me they are going to walk away because I'm simply not worth the effort. After all, that's what my husband did.

Sigh.

I'm tired of living in the chains of my fears. I want to live free. To stop believing lies. To change this lifelong habit of response. To carry myself as though I'm enough.

I am enough because I AM is enough.

And I want my life to reflect that truth instead of the lie I've been reflecting for so long.