I closed the door and he walked down the sidewalk. His car started and I heard it back out of the driveway. I slowly turned around to face my babies, crumpled on the brand-new sofa. He had stopped by to share the news with them. The big news.

The “D” word news: DIVORCE. 

A word that felt like poison. Poured out on us; stinging and ripping our hearts to shreds. 

I climbed between them and we cried. We cried and cried and cried. We cried until the tears ran out. I was so afraid. How, Lord? How will I carry their oceans of grief when I’m drowning in the sea myself? 

They slept with me that night. We tucked into my freshly painted bedroom—one baby on my right and one on my left. 

And in the unseen realm, angels all around and a Father quieting us with his steadfast, unchanged and unchanging love. He tucked us in and held us near. He filled our lungs with breath and so we breathed. In and out. In and out. We kept breathing. But it’s only because of him. It’s truly only because of him. 

Because we were adrift. Lungs full of water. Wave upon wave battering, smashing, crashing, slamming us. And we were drowning. The pain. Oh, it was pure anguish. 

Mother’s Day was two days later. “What a farce” I remember thinking as I got ready for church. I felt horrible. My eyes were so puffy from days and nights of tears. I felt horrible about myself. I clothed myself in dreary black clothes. What’s the point? Color is gone from the world. Is it bad to look like a funeral goer on Mother’s Day?

Paste on joy. Paste on a smile. Paste on the mask. 

There was a photo booth set up outside the church. A hand-lettered sign read, “She is clothed with strength and dignity…” 

“What a farce,” I remember thinking. 

Strength? Dignity? No, not me. I was clothed in funeral clothes. 

The weight of motherhood pressed down on me that morning. I felt so insignificant, so incompetent, for the road ahead. All I could think was how much I wished my girls had a stronger Mom. They deserved a stronger Mom. One who could wear a pink dress and high heels and laugh at the days to come. 

Instead, they had me–a broken shell of a Mom. A cast-aside wife. An unloved woman shrouded in black.

It’s maybe the worst I’ve ever felt. 

We packed into the car and headed home. We were in a brand new city and I made a wrong turn. We ended up in the tiny little downtown of our sleepy Georgia suburb. There was an old Coca-Cola mural painted on the wall. I pulled the car over and we ambled out. I liked this sign better than the one at church. This one said, “Drink Coca-Cola! Delicious and refreshing!” I may not be clothed with strength and dignity, but I can drink Coca-Cola. I grabbed my camera and we snapped some selfies. We laughed because I can’t take selfies. I kept my sunglasses on and it hid my puffy eyes. We smiled and squeezed in close. 

I love those pictures. They are genuine. A moment in time when we let our hair down, laughing in the ocean of grief. 

A step forward. A wobbly, slightly bitter step forward, but a step all the same. 

I knew I needed to write the email. I had put it off for days and it was time. 

Dear praying friends….

He’s gone. He wanted out. He didn’t love me. 

I’m a single Mom now. I’m not sure how…

Will you pray? We desperately need your prayers…

Email sent. Another step forward.

A friend wrote back offering a week at a cabin in the North Georgia mountains. What a grace. What perfect timing. 

Yes, please. 

We need fresh air. A different perspective. Rest.

So we loaded up our little car and hit the road. The drive was stunning. I started to breathe more deeply. We arrived at the bottom of the mountain and began the ascent to the cabin. 

And then panic set in. 

I started to shake and the tears began to fall. The roads were so narrow, so steep. There was no room for other cars to pass. I began to imagine our tire slipping off the track. I pulled over and the tears fell. 

This was his job. Not mine. 

He drives the car. I’m the passenger. Or maybe I should say, I was the passenger?

Now I am the driver. There was no one else who could take the wheel. 

And maybe that sounds like I’m just talking about driving my car, but dear reader, at that moment the weight of my new life crashed down upon me with so much force, I was literally paralyzed on the side of the road. 

I sat there panicking and crying and absolutely scaring my daughters. We were halfway up a mountain. I couldn’t turn around. The road was too narrow. There was nowhere to go but up. So I put the car in drive and we inched up the mountain pass. I cried and prayed and begged God to help me. 

It took forever, but we made it to our cabin and unloaded the car. The girls set up their bedroom and I stepped out on the porch to take in the view. I breathed in the fresh mountain air and thanked God for getting us there. 

That night I climbed into bed and cried until there were no tears left. It’s too hard. I can’t do this. Eventually, I drifted off into fitful sleep. 

Dawn broke through the black, the haze, and the sun peaked into my room. I slipped out of bed and quietly stepped out onto the deck. I sat on the porch swing and watched the sun rise over the hills. 

And I breathed fresh air. I drank in the new mercies, the new day. 

We were on top of a mountain that seemed insurmountable yesterday. What if I had turned back? I would have missed the glory of the sun spilling over the peaks. I would have missed the quiet birdsong and the morning mist rising. 

I had to keep going. 

There was no turning back. The path didn’t allow room for it. I had to take steps forward. Even though it felt like we might plummet downwards. Even though I was terrified, panicked, full of tears. I must press on. I must. 

With my own eyes, I saw the reward. 

Dawn. Light. Song. Air. 

Brighter days were ahead. 

I had to believe it. What other choice did I have? Spend the rest of my days pulled over on the side of a mountain, stalled out in fear? 

No. I would not stall out. 

Oh Jesus, help me not stall out. Only you can get us to the summit. 

And so I would press on…one step. And another. And another…

TO BE CONTINUED…

Missed the first seven chapters? Head back to the beginning to read Chapter 1: SHATTERED

**Maybe you are also in a place where you feel completely hopeless? While the writing of my story is going chapter by chapter, I would like to fast forward you today to the most glorious ending. Hopelessness doesn’t have the final say when Jesus steps into the story…