But When Did You Know?
My then husband had been out of the inpatient program for a few weeks when we had our last phone call as husband and wife. I did not know it at the time, as I answered his call that evening driving in rush hour traffic as the rain wished-washed across my windshield. I can still hear the wipers, stubbornly gliding in between heavy and light spurts as if telling me, it’s coming; just hang in there, the end is coming. I did not know it at the time, but God had diligently been preparing my heart, and more importantly, my brain to receive this call in the capacity I did. Truthfully, my then husband spoke words and with a tone I had experienced dozens of times in the last few years. The direct reminder that we both ruined our marriage. The voicing that a lot of things would need to change for him to commit to reconciliation. The stoic response, I am not comfortable with that, when I indicated I would want a formal disclosure with our therapy teams and routine polygraphs. My own brain pausing, shocked and not shocked all at the same time, at the ease of his fresh-out-of-inpatient responses. My own brain pausing, as I spoke my needs out loud. Did I want this? Did I want a life the therapists told me to expect in year one of recovery? Lie detectors with an added layer for eye movement? A life he had already lied through for a year of intensive therapy and separation? As these questions circled the now stifling, humid atmosphere of my car, and eventually dispersed up to the clouds that hovered over my drive, my then husband continued on. I eventually interjected. Muttered, really. Something about meeting later that week for dinner.
What my then husband heard on that last call was my expected agreeing with his perspectives, so I could peacefully end the call. What he did not hear, or rather, chose not to hear, were that my needs for reconciliation in the last few weeks since inpatient had transitioned from open for discussion, to non-negotiable. And when I hung up the phone, I knew.
As God planned it, I was driving to my second bible study that evening with a new church group. It was a trauma recovery group. I had shared my story the week before and debated even returning. Among the stories of death, childhood abuse, and adult care giving, my 8-year marital saga of deception left the entire group speechless. I was not even sure where to go from there in week two. But before we started on our lessons and the group was filling in, a new face entered the room. She was beautiful, a powerhouse all five feet of her. And then she blew me away with her testimony of domestic violence, survival, recovery, and what my soul needed most that night, surviving legal battles. Two hours later, I would leave the group with a name and number for one of the best female divorce attorneys in my area.
When I say God lined everything up, God, lined everything up. I did not plan fearless, and I did not plan confidently. But I did plan when it was calm (as calm as controlled chaos can be), white knuckling and teeth grinding over the next few weeks, as I planned for the legal ending of my marriage.
I knew.
I had asked a few women before me on similar journeys, “But when did you know?” Their answers and scenarios were all different and yet all the same. This would be my ending.
I had played dozens of scenarios and rehearsed conversations in my head, detailing what the end would finally be. What would it finally take for me to save myself and stop trying to save him? I had my APSAT coach, my trusted inner support circle, my list of non-negotiable needs for reconciliation, my positive affirmations, and the list goes on for what I compiled for justification to save myself. And what was ultimately required, what finally took place for me to know, was a complete surrender to God who was just waiting in the wings to take my hand and say, come. Follow me.
