Name withheld

I remember the intense physical reaction I had to the news: stomach churning, muscles fluttering, icy cold enveloping me. My mind was racing, struggling to absorb this new reality, while some crazy analytical part of my brain was taking notes in a detached, methodical way. Hours later, I was still dazed as the police officer told me what a brave little lady I was. Brave? Disbelief was keeping me calm, not courage. Disbelief that this could happen to me, a good girl! As the officer explained the sexual nature of the crime my young husband had been charged with, an inexplicable sense of relief washed over me. With the crystalline clarity of hindsight, I knew I had been subconsciously expecting and fearing this kind of news. Now that it had happened, I could finally stop dreading it.
I spent my childhood on the family farm in rural Ontario, dividing my time between church and school activities. The youngest child in a large family, I thrived on the attention of my siblings and the loving devotion of my parents. We had a simple, healthy lifestyle built on the backbone of Ora et Labora (Pray and Work). My parents’ deep faith in God was reflected in every aspect of their lives: their happy marriage, a strong work ethic, a commitment to Christian education and, of course, instruction in the teachings and doctrine of the church, which included a host of unspoken but rigorous rules regarding acceptable behaviour and seemly outward appearance. I attended the requisite child and youth group activities and at eighteen made the decision to share publicly that I had accepted Christ and his salvation.  
Throughout high school I had dated a boy who was not a Christian, whose parents were “unbelievers.” I saw the pain and fear this caused my parents and I knew in my heart that this relationship was unhealthy for me. However, as a girl who chose to read instead of play sports, who didn’t think school “sucked” but loved learning, who enjoyed playing the piano and making the teachers proud, I was not popular. I had few friends and no dating prospects. Come on, God, a girl needs a boyfriend. Cut me some slack here! Eventually, though, I realized that a future of being “unequally yoked” was not what I wanted. I ended the relationship. I left the farm and my close-knit community and went off to a Christian university.
This was more like it! An environment where everyone enjoyed learning. An opportunity to broaden my world-view at an institution that proclaimed God’s love of diversity. A place to develop and mature. A place of acceptance and self-discovery. And boys! Boys who came from faith-based backgrounds like my own. In fact, one boy in particular, with brown eyes and a love for music. A boy who understood and even encouraged my drive to excel in my studies, though he displayed a somewhat puzzling lack of ambition for himself. As we grew closer, I was comforted by the familiarity that our similar upbringing brought to our relationship. We believed the same things, worshipped in the same style, adhered to the same lifestyle rules.

Looked good, felt right
Granted, when we spent time with his family, I eventually understood that their unvoiced mantra was “Fear God, and don’t screw up” which was quite different from the “Love God and praise him” interpretation I grew up with. However, he had been baptized, redeemed, and sanctified by the blood. It all looked good, felt right and moved smoothly along. If my future husband seemed to lack direction and harbour a great deal of resentment toward his family, well, I could fix that! Love can fix anything, right? And, as a special blessing, my father, who had struggled for years with cancer, could walk me down the aisle. It couldn’t be more perfect.
A few short weeks before our big day, my husband confessed to me that he had visited a strip club, just once, out of curiosity. After all, he was getting married, and I wouldn’t want him to go after the wedding, right? I was surprised and dismayed because it had never occurred to me that as a Christian he would even consider that kind of activity. He laughed the experience off, assuring me that it meant nothing. I agreed to forget about it; after all, the only thing left on the wedding To Do List was the tissue paper flowers for the pews – no time for second thoughts. I was deeply hurt, however, and felt betrayed. Why had I bothered saving myself for marriage if he hadn’t been committed to the same kind of purity? His revelation snaked through my thoughts during the wedding ceremony. But I loved him and I made the vows to him that I intended to honour.
A honeymoon was out of the question. My newlywed husband had recently dropped out of university and hadn’t been able to find work. I went back to work two days after our wedding. The empty days settled heavily on him. I noticed changes in his behaviour, inconsistencies in his conversation, shortages of money, and absences he couldn’t explain. He began to refuse to attend church with me. I hesitated to argue, and tried instead to show him how much I loved him and how important our marriage was to me. My suspicions about his activities, however, receded into the background as I struggled to cope with the news that my father’s illness was no longer responding to treatment.  
In the weeks following Dad’s death, I spent a lot of time with my family as we supported each other in our grief. I watched my mother mourn the loss of her loving husband. I witnessed the care and love with which my brothers-in-law treated my sisters. I knew my husband’s lack of solicitude was evident and his absence conspicuous. Embarrassed and defiant, I redoubled my efforts to engage him in our marriage. He had at last secured employment and seemed more content. I was thrilled to accept a position with a faith-based social service agency. We became members of a large church led by a gifted pastor. Encouraged by the positive changes in our lives and thinking that we had put many outside pressures to rest, I believed that our marriage was beginning to heal. My husband became acquainted with several men in the church and began attending sporadically. I started getting involved in church activities. As we posed for our picture in the annual church directory, I silently thanked God for his sufficient grace through the first difficult years of our marriage.
Then the police called.

A secret life
I discovered that my husband had a life I knew nothing about. That the distasteful indiscretions I had laboured to overlook and forgive were just the tip of a shadowy iceberg of deviancy completely foreign to me. Faced with the collapse of our marriage and the legal consequences of his actions, he begged me to stay with him. He appeared truly penitent. I felt convicted to “forgive as you have been forgiven.” The days and nights following his court appearance are hazy in my memory. I do remember being physically ill upon hearing details of his charge. Every time I thought about it, my stomach would seek to heave the betrayal from my body. I couldn’t bring myself to tell family or friends, so great was my shame. Soul-screaming, I desperately prayed for strength, though it seemed wrong to approach God about such unsavoury circumstances. To my surprise, God surrounded me with such a comforting presence in those first few days that, at times, I felt I could almost reach out and physically touch him. I could not see him, but felt the warmth of his hand on mine. I experienced the bodily sensation of my pulse-rate being compelled to slow down. I had never experienced such an intimate closeness with God in my highly-regulated faith life before. Though I remember little about the trial, I still vividly recall what it felt like to be sustained by his Spirit throughout that time.
We tried to rebuild our marriage. We began counselling, and, for a time, I believed it was working. I dearly wanted a “normal” life, to appear as if we had a healthy Christian marriage, so I was willing to settle for a veneer. I soon discovered to my horror that my husband had not changed his lifestyle. In fact, I was so naïve that I had to look up definitions for many of his sexual activities. I wanted to honour the vows I had made before God and witnesses, but I no longer could. I could not condone his lifestyle by repeatedly forgiving him knowing full well that he would undoubtedly re-offend. We agreed to keep the cause of our failed marriage discreet, protecting extended family members and friends from knowing the full truth. Then, alone, I faced the arduous task of informing my family, friends, and co-workers that my marriage was ending.
Until recent years, divorce was virtually unheard of in my church. Certainly it was a last resort, much frowned upon. By complying with my ex-husband’s plea not to reveal the exact nature of his actions, I had unwittingly set myself up for judgment. And I was indeed judged. Letters came, condemning me for leaving my marriage. People who had not corresponded with me in years felt compelled to urge me not to take my vows so lightly, but to try harder, to have more faith, to put Christ at the centre of my marriage. I longed to scream, “I didn’t leave my marriage! I was crowded out … by pornography, internet liaisons, deviant and criminal behaviour!” Aside from the fleeting satisfaction of shock value, of making someone else feel my revulsion and pain, I knew it would not help. My family and close friends were unbelievably supportive during my divorce. It was their love and God’s grace that carried me through the ordeal of starting my life over.

Isn’t there anything I can absolutely count on?
It has been many years since my marriage ended. I am gradually adjusting to the idea of returning to a church family. Encouraging me in this direction is, interestingly enough, the man with whom I have begun a new relationship. It wasn’t an easy thing to learn to trust again. The words “There’s something I have to tell you” can still send me into instantaneous panic. I stumble with trust until he reminds me, “I’m not like him.” To say the least! The man I am now dating comes from a background that could not be more different from mine. A childhood of abuse, neglect, and hardship led to alcoholism and a shattered life. At 33, he finally admitted his powerlessness and sought treatment. He has been sober for six years now. We make an odd pair, the sheltered small town girl and the tough, street-smart city guy in a motorcycle jacket. Not so odd as it might seem upon first glance, though. His character is genuine, open and honest. He is frank, hard-working, and compassionate. I held him as he cried the night he accepted Christ. His faith is simple, solid and unquestioning, a true blessing to me as I put into perspective my personal journey over the past decades.
Recently I had to have a hysterectomy. I had to face never becoming a mother, another deeply painful loss. Once again the family and friends God has provided for me have been an ever-present support. In a moment of emotional weakness, I rebelled: Isn’t there anything I can absolutely count on? Am I never going to have anything in this life that is stable, that doesn’t change when I least expect it? Immediately I felt again the same warmth, the same comfort that I felt years ago as a shattered wife. God was reminding me: My love is eternal and unchanging. Rest in me.
So I have.