I Believe in Miracles.... and Movies.

"People break down in to two groups: When they experience something lucky, group number one sees it as more than luck, more than coincidence. They see it as a sign, evidence, that there is someone up there watching out for them.

Group number two sees it as just pure luck. Just a happy turn of chance. I'm sure the people in group number two are looking at those fourteen lights in a very suspicious way. For them, the situation is fifty-fifty. Could be bad, could be good. But deep down, they feel that whatever happens, they're on their own. And that fills them with fear.

Yeah, there are those people.

But there's a whole lot of people in group number one. When they see those fourteen lights, they're looking at a miracle. And deep down, they feel that whatever's going to happen, there will be someone there to help them, and that fills them with hope.

See, what you have to ask yourself is what kind of person are you? Are you the kind that sees signs, that sees miracles? Or do you believe that people just get lucky?

Or look at the question this way: Is it possible that there are no coincidences?"

-Graham, from "Signs"

*****

I came to the conclusion long ago that life is messy. The only way to survive when bad things happen to good people, {and they will} is to remember that there is always someone looking out for me. I'm never alone, and that fills me with hope.

Bring on the alien invasion, baby. ;)

What kind of person are you? {The kind that can draw from a well of faith-building-scenes-in-movies just as readily as stories from the scriptures? Me too!}

The Rundown, Part 9

"You have not loved me well," I told J. We were parked at the end of a dirt road next to the remains of a cotton field. The landscape was barren, and I felt just as desolate inside.

"I think about that 19 year old girl that I was when we married. She was so innocent, so trusting, so vulnerable with you....." I was trying not to cry, and failing miserably.

"I wish you had cherished her. I wish you had respected her. I wish you had been noble and gentle and a protector of all that was sacred," I turned to look at him, a portrait of pain with my unkempt hair, red-rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks. "Instead, you used her."

"From the very beginning, you were dishonest. You couldn't see me as someone with real feelings, but as something to fill your needs. You brought this ugliness into our lives, into our bed, into the same room as our sleeping children. You violated our home and sullied everything I held dear."

J didn't interrupt. He simply sat there as I took a moment to sob angrily and mop at my face with a napkin. Finally, I took a shuddering breath and stared at the horizon.

"I do not regret marrying you, but all of..... this.... makes me feel like I would be a fool for staying. You've wounded me far more deeply than you could have if you'd punched me in the face, and yet if you were beating me instead of betraying me, wouldn't I be long gone by now?

"I don't know how to move past this. I just know that I'm in pain-- the most excruciating pain I've ever felt-- and I wish that you had the ability to love me. I wish you could see and feel in a way that would make you never want to cause this kind of destruction again."

For a long time, I cried, not registering the words he said or his arms around me as he tried to comfort me.

Gradually, I realized J was crying. I watched as he began to transform before my eyes-- it was as if every burden he'd handed me over the years was piled back onto his own shoulders. I could see the weight of it, the agony as he began to comprehend just how horrible his choices had made me feel. We wept, both overcome with grief.

I don't know how to describe what happened next. It was as if a conduit to heaven opened up, and God wiped all tears away. We could feel the weight lifted from our shoulders, the pain removed from our hearts. The air was thick with the spirit, and we could hardly speak for fear of breaking the reverence.

Just moments ago, I could not have conceived of ever feeling safe with J again, and yet as the sun set and I sat in awe of the miracle that had just taken place, I held J's face in my hands and whispered, "This is how I wanted to start our marriage; as two flawed people with lots of mistakes behind us and lots of mistakes in front of us, but completely united. So, we're starting again. I'm pretending that this is the beginning, and I'm saying Yes, I will marry you."

I also told him that after this experience and the events of the last year, I'd changed. I could't and wouldn't go back to where we once were.

"Never again," he agreed. "I can't take back the past, but I can promise never to do it to you in the future."

We drove home, both solemn and joyful. We'd come back from the brink of disaster and had a new beginning.

{image by Mark Mabry}

The Rundown, Part 8

We've always been good at collaborating on projects together. If its something that we're united in, our talents combine and complement, our enthusiasm builds, and the whole becomes greater than the sum of its parts. Of all the things that make us compatible, I've always loved that we can be 'a very effective team' the most.

We have a tradition of filming videos of our family and sending them out in place of Christmas cards. It became something we looked forward to and planned for months in advance. The year we were separated was no different. We spent a whole weekend building sets and hanging lights, filming with the kids in shifts and living off of holiday food. For the first time in forever, J spent the night at the house {albeit on the couch} and I could see how exciting it was for the kids to run downstairs in the morning and find him there. It felt good to be reminded of all the ways in which we could be amazing together.

And there were hopeful signs as well-- several moments when I would break down or express a fear or draw a boundary and J would react with tenderness and compassion. It made the entire experience beautiful and connecting.

Therapy was going very well. J was starting to express unprompted empathy, and he was nearing 90 days of genuine sobriety. It seemed that things had started to turn a corner.

Then we had a new Bishop called in. To our dismay, he was completely green when it came to addiction recovery. We could both tell that our separation freaked him out. He began cornering J at every opportunity and asking him what he could do to move the process along more quickly. We've gotta get you moved back in together, he'd say seriously. This separation thing just isn't good.

J's response? "I think my wife can take all the time she needs. We're working it out, and doing just fine."

My jaw dropped. I don't think J had ever defended me publicly about something that he in fact, wasn't entirely comfortable with either. It was such a telling show of solidarity and understanding that I began to think maybe, just maybe, this time things were actually different. Maybe he was in recovery.

But we had one large hurdle to jump before I could consider reconciliation. I needed to know everything. J had been lying for so long and so convincingly, that I needed to have it all out on the table. If we were going to start again, I wanted a blank slate. No secrets between us.

J worked for months on his Step 4 {write an honest and searching moral inventory} and prepared to share it with me. Our therapist tried to reassure me that while it would be painful to hear, there was probably nothing on it that I hadn't already thought of or known on some level. So with trepidation, we set a date to go over it together.

There is no other way to say it: that night was the worst night of my life.

It was as if every fearful, traumatizing thought I'd ever entertained had turned out to be true-- only worse. I sat, stunned and numb at first. The weight of what he said seemed to slowly crush down on me, until after he'd only made it halfway through, I broke down in raw, animalistic sobs.

Tentatively, he reached out to touch and comfort me, but I shoved his hand away, horrified and disgusted.

It was a pain unlike any I have ever experienced; a wave of betrayal and grief that flowed through me as every covenant we'd made, every sacred moment we'd shared, every beautiful thing we'd created together crashed down and was mocked before my eyes.

I felt so violated and tainted. I thought of every time I'd let him look at me, touch me, or be intimate with me, and suddenly felt dirty. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to die.

How could I ever come back from this? How would I ever look at him again? How would I ever look at myself?

I was still crying when J left.

I continued to cry for the next 24 hours. My poor kids-- they came in periodically as I sat in bed, surrounded by tissues, and would hug me as they asked about what to eat for lunch, seemingly unfazed by the fact that I was barely clinging to the land of the living. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. My eyes became red and swollen, and my whole body ached with the emotions that seemed to wrack my soul. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to feel indigent and powerful, to lash out at J and proclaim that we were through. But the truth was that I was simply and thoroughly devastated.

So I cried and prayed and journaled and cried again as I prepared to confront him.

Call and Answer

It's hard to navigate that line between keeping myself safe and wanting to be open and loving. It's a balance between boundaries and vulnerability that I can't help but think would be easier in a healthier relationship. For years, I've yearned for J to join me-- to reach for something better than what we have. It's felt like I've been singing a variation of this song:

"Call and Answer"

I think it's getting to the point
Where I can be myself again
I think it's getting to the point
Where we have almost made amends
I think it's the getting to the point
That is the hardest part

And if you call, I will answer
And if you fall, I'll pick you up
And if you court this disaster
I'll point you home
I'll point you home

You think I only think about you
When we're both in the same room
You think I'm only here to witness
The remains of love exhumed
You think we're here to play
A game of who loves more than whom

And if you call, I will answer
And if you fall, I'll pick you up
And if you court this disaster

You think it's only fair to do what's best for
You and you alone
You think it's only fair to do the same to me
When you're not home
I think it's time to make this something that is
More than only fair

So if you call, I will answer
And if you fall, I'll pick you up
And if you court this disaster
I'll point you home

But I'm warning you, don't ever do
Those crazy, messed-up things that you do
If you ever do,
I promise you I'll be the first to crucify you
Now it's time to prove that you've come back
Here to rebuild
Rebuild
Rebuild
Rebuild

{image uncredited-- anyone know the painter?}

The Rundown, Part 7

J was determined to prove that I was overreacting. As far as anyone else knew, the kids and I were simply on vacation. "I'll have my temple recommend in no time," he boasted. "Then you can come back, and I'll show you that I've changed."

I was doubtful. More than that, I didn't trust that sobriety meant recovery. Like the early days, I almost wanted him to slip so I could see how he would respond. Would he be humble? Would he deny that anything had happened? Would he deflect blame? His reaction to being confronted with reality-- that he was powerless over his addiction-- would tell me far more about his place in recovery than the number of days he'd been sober.

To my relief, just 24 hours before he was to have his recommend reinstated, he broke sobriety. He confessed, devastated, and I was sincerely impressed by his honesty.

The next day, he reported that he still wasn't sober.

And the next.

And the next.

When he texted me on the 5th day with small talk, I straight-up asked him if he'd acted out that day. He reassured me that no, he was feeling good; then he went to an SA meeting. When he got back, he wrote me a long email and confided that he'd lied earlier.

For years, I'd told J that my bottom line was the lying. "We can fight this together," I told him, "as long as you let me in. I need to see that you really want this-- that we're on the same team." However, I'd never developed firm boundaries for when he violated that bottom line. Oh sure, I'd be angry. I'd tell him to sleep on the couch, or I'd give him the silent treatment, but I never examined what I needed to feel safe, and often allowed my boundaries to crumble in the face of resistance.

This time, I had a clear gut reaction: I can't sleep in the same house with someone I don't trust. 

As I went running and meditated, not only did I feel a powerful confirmation of my decision, I also had the impression that I should give him a choice: I cannot live with someone who lies to me. Would you like to move out, or shall I stay here with my parents?

Of course, he was furious. He acted wounded. He accused me of being selfish. He justified himself, saying, "I only lied for a few hours. I just didn't want to depress you. I was protecting you."

The more he kicked against the pricks, the more I felt assured of how right it was to detach myself from the drama. Again and again, I'd calmly ask, "So would you like to move out, or shall I stay here?"

He moved out.

We were separated for 9 months, and I think J was insulted that I found them to be pleasant and peaceful. I hadn't realized how much emotional energy I'd invested in appeasing J until he was no longer a constant presence. I enjoyed concerning myself only with my own recovery and managing the needs of my children. I no longer felt the weight of J's addiction taking up the largest portion of my mind, heart and life.

But there were difficulties. Even though J came over every weekend and would join us for Church and Family Home Evening, the children missed him terribly. Our 4 year old would ask when Daddy was going to come home and stay home. I'd tell him that I didn't know-- that Heavenly Father had told me when we needed a break, and that he would tell me when we were ready to live together again.

He would look at me with his furrowed brow and say, "Mommy, if you don't know when, then how 'bout I decide? How 'bout on Friday?"

I spent many nights praying that God would make up for the way our grown-up choices were affecting our little kids' lives.

I also found that the longer we worked together in therapy, the more difficult my conflicting emotions became. Our therapist specialized in treating sexual addiction as an attachment disorder, so much of the work revolved around teaching J what real attachment meant and how to feel his emotions and turn to others to help regulate uncomfortable feelings in a healthy way rather than numbing them out with pornography.

For months, this meant practicing turning to God, a sponsor, a family member, or even things like a memento of a loved one. But as he progressed, my heart began to soften, and we started to work on creating true attachment and intimacy between the two of us.

It was exciting and hopeful-- I was seeing glimpses of a J I'd only dreamed was in there. We would work on an assignment and I'd feel an overpowering love for this man I thought had been lost or even nonexistent; a figment of my imagination. But almost as quickly as the euphoria came, I'd become plagued with doubt. Am I falling for it all over again? Am I setting myself up for another heartbreak?

Terrified, I would retreat into detachment, which J would inevitably see as a personal rejection. He'd get that hurt look on his face, and his lack of empathy and understanding would then seem like confirmation of all my fears.

See? I'd think, He can't help but play the victim! I'm only an object of pleasure for him! He was just faking that change of heart! The pain and fear was crippling. It was an exhausting cycle, and one that we became very, very familiar with.

It wasn't until Christmas that things began to feel different.

{image by Laura Williams}

The Rundown, Part 6

Even with all the therapy and study I'd done, I never truly understood boundaries until I was so broken down and tired that the best I could muster was to make decisions purely for my own survival.

In pain? Leave.

Overwhelmed? Let God handle it.

Scared of the future? Keep your head where your feet are.

So much of it was visceral. My sense of what was true, what was reality, what was right were so upturned that I couldn't make logical sense of it, so I clung to the only thing I did trust-- the still, small whisperings of the Spirit.

J would ask, "Can I call you in the middle of the night if I'm struggling?" and without thinking, I would say, "No. I can't take care of you. Get a sponsor." No matter how appalled he was, I knew it was honest-- I could not take care of him. Acknowledging that fact ignited a glimmer of peace inside my heart.

I quickly determined that taking on the burden of responsibility for something I had no control over instantly dispelled peace and introduced fear, so I guarded that peace with everything I had, even as J's manipulations increased:

"It is not good for man to be alone," he would try. "How am I supposed to succeed at recovery when you won't support me in it?"

"One of my biggest scars from childhood is rejection-- If you love me, why are you abandoning me when I need you most?"

"How are we ever supposed to heal our marriage when we're apart? God wants us to be together!"

"None of our friends or family understand why you're doing this! You're just hurting this marriage!"

The more J would talk, the more I felt every cell in my body scream IT IS NOT MY RESPONSIBILITY TO MAKE YOU SOBER!

In the years before, his pleadings would have moved me. Part of loving someone is giving them the benefit of the doubt-- that they have the best of intentions, and wouldn't truly hurt you maliciously. But addiction taints that. I could no longer assume that what he wanted was recovery and not just to restore the status quo. His words said "I love you" but his actions said "I love the addiction." Boundaries kept me from being too vulnerable with someone who had-- and still could-- abuse that vulnerability.

That isn't to say that I was immune to concern-- I still loved J and longed for him to change. I wanted the recovery I thought we'd had. Most of all, I desperately wanted to give my children a stable home with an example of parents who were faithful to each other and the Lord.

But as much as I yearned for those things, I knew they were out of my control. I did not have the knowledge, power, or energy to secure them. I was forced to surrender; to sacrifice my deepest desires on the alter of the Lord, and trust that He would turn even this to my good.

It was freeing.

I had a long and golden summer, as I ran amid the wheat fields, watched the kids roast marshmallows over a campfire and lounged in a deck chair as white sheets blew in the breeze on a laundry line. It was healing and sacred and I felt protected at home with my parents. Slowly, the world began to right itself again. I felt stronger, more confident in my connection with God and in touch with what I truly needed for myself.

I would need that strength for the year that followed.

{image}

The Rundown, Part 5

Even with the spirit guiding my discovery, I felt totally blindsided. Overcoming addiction had been a source of accomplishment for us. It was something we talked about often-- the early days of his denial, his first tearful confession when I found him in the closet, and then finally, him taking responsibility for his own recovery with LifeStar while I focused on letting go. We had been the success story! I'd thought we were on the brink of entering a phase of both being dependent on God so we could be interdependent on each other-- and here I was, discovering that the amazing journey we'd been on together was actually a path I'd taken alone? It was horribly disorienting.

It got worse as the length and breadth of his actions slowly began to reveal themselves. {For the record, trickle disclosures suck.}

He said he'd been acting out for a few months, but only because I was so distant and unloving.

No, actually, it had been a few years, but not seriously.

Scratch that, it had started right after he quit going to therapy and it was because he was bored and frustrated at work.

Had his behavior escalated? No. Maybe. Yes.

Oh, you know what? Now that he thought about it, he didn't know if he'd really been sober for any length of time even when in therapy...... but that wasn't the point.

Apparently, he felt that the real point, the root of the problem {of which addiction was just a symptom, in his mind} was that our relationship was in crisis. Clearly, I had detached so completely in my quest to let go and let God that I wasn't truly present in the marriage anymore.

{Of course, now when I read that, I want to shake myself. J rarely gets mad, but without fail, he plays victim when confronted with his addiction. Refusing to take responsibility is clear addict behavior.}

Unfortunately, at the time, there was just enough truth in what he said {I was, after all, very detached} that given a few weeks of his persuading and debating, I began to wear down. My parents were in transition, so I didn't have a place to escape to; Our therapist was booked out for 2 months, and I was staring down the barrel of a long, hot summer. Denying the severity of the problem was the path of least resistance.

So, we worked on our 'relationship'. Courting and whatnot. But I was plagued with a sense of deja vu. Nothing he did or said seemed different than the last time, and I'd seen where that had got me. How were chocolates and flowers supposed to change that? I started to feel like an emotionally battered woman, and determined that I needed to figure out how to keep from being trampled all over again. I started with a simple boundary: I would not be bullied into sex.

It wasn't long before that boundary was tested, as I later learned all boundaries are.

It was a Saturday morning, and while I attempted to sleep in, J turned to me without preamble. I'd taken to wearing one-piece garments in order to discourage wandering hands {TMI, I know} but it didn't help. I rebuffed him and he sighed. He sighed the heavy way he'd sighed that day; the way he'd sighed a thousand times; in a way that spoke a thousand words of accusation. As he went on to voice his frustration with that wounded look on his face, I. just. snapped.

The nerve! The entitlement! The complete lack of empathy! I didn't speak to, or even look at him for a week. Never in my life have I been so consumed with unbridled rage.

Finally, after an evening watching J back peddle, {calling in Home Teachers to give him a blessing, imploring me to pray with him, asking me in that I-am-so-concerned-for-your-spiritual-welfare voice that I turn the other cheek and fight for our marriage} I lay awake on the edge of our bed, as far from my sleeping husband as I could get. Tears streamed down my face as I uttered the only prayer I could muster:

"I hate him. Dear God, I hate him. I don't want to be here. I don't want him next to me. I don't want to be mad anymore. I don't know what to do and I'm going to screw this all up. Please God, help me not to hate him."

The next morning, I felt miraculously calm. The anger had drained away, though the hurt remained.

That same day, my parents signed a rental agreement on their new home, and before the ink had time to dry, I packed up the kids and left.

{image}