My Justice Served
I went through an incredibly intense period of wanting justice shortly before my divorce. Sometimes I get lingering aftershocks from this period over a year later. I had one recently, standing in my kitchen seasoning chicken thighs for dinner when I remembered a serving bowl I left in my marital home. The flashback continued on to the visuals of photos I incidentally saw as I was deleting my social media accounts. Photos of a family reunion my then husband hosted in our marital home, a few months before our divorce. My serving bowls, a few I had collected over the years and others given to me by his grandma, were pictured all over the kitchen counter with chips and appetizers, surrounded by family I had not seen in quite some time. The next photo was my then husband’s affair partner and her child, standing in the kitchen wearing smiles and early-summer party attire. It was quite an event, I had heard later that evening. One where he introduced her to the family as new and taking it slow. My then husband, pictured full-smile beside this woman at a table covered in steamed crabs and beers. Two months post his discharge from the inpatient program. Days from emails and texts, lamenting the darkness and loss of our marriage. Weeks away from a divorce. The garage door closes, and I am startled back to present day, staring at the chicken thigh skin I have now caked in seasoning. My racing heart and flustered fingers are immediately at ease when my now partner rounds the corner for his consistent, warm, welcome-home greetings. I am back in my kitchen. I am back in my safe place. He comes immediately to hug me, chicken-thigh-seasoned hands and all. I feel peace.
This, dear partner, is my justice served.
One can imagine the shift from very private to intense public humiliation is quite provoking. As if we have not been through enough, dear partner, the days leading up to my divorce were filled with calls from close friends and old acquaintances who wanted to know who she was; the woman my then husband was now bringing to professional events. Some that once knew me intimately, asking why my then husband said, we just fell out of love. I wanted to rage during each and every call. I wanted to blast his name, his reputation, sharing all that he had done to me and drop the mic with the end call button. But I knew this high, this intense desire for justice, would be so very short-lived. A therapist once told me, I could write an entire book and no one would believe me; he is just that good. So after I processed these calls, these visceral and deeply painful reminders of the continued humiliation experienced as his wife, I made a mission critical connection. I did not need to share one, true, relevant detail from my lips to their ears. My then husband was already living out what he had done to me; what his behaviors and choices continue to emulate. He is living it out, on public display for the world to see. I didn’t need to say anything.
This, dear partner, is my justice served.
A full circle realization, is that justice wasn’t for me to decide. Justice for the how and the when accountability would come for his actions. It still isn’t for me to decide. And that is one part of radical acceptance on our healing journey.
I am acutely and often reminded, that the peace of my life, the peace I battled long and hard for at the feet of Jesus, is my justice served. The day I took my last anti-anxiety pill. The day I moved 500 miles away from all that I had known to begin a life that would become far greater than I could have ever imagined. I serve a God of justice. And God is consistently faithful to my healing, as I seek him daily.
Nothing of this world can compete with the joy of God’s redemption.
This, dear partner, is my justice served.
