The Sermon

One Sunday in late October, we went to church.

For the first time in a long while, I truly believed we were in a good place. We had just come home from a beautiful weekend away, just the two of us — laughter, ease, closeness that felt like us again. Sitting in that church, I felt settled. Grounded. Hopeful. I don't remember the last time I had felt that way there.

Then the sermon began.

The focus was Malachi 2 — the passage where God speaks about hating divorce, about dealing treacherously with the wife of your youth. About taking heed to your spirit.

As the words were spoken, I became acutely aware of my husband's attention on me. His arm wrapped tightly around me. His hand rubbing my back. Pulling me closer. Holding me — almost protectively. Instead of letting my thoughts drift toward the things I was still withholding, I allowed myself to receive it. I let myself feel his closeness in a way I hadn't in so long.

Then the sermon continued — to Matthew 19, and the words “except for sexual immorality.”

My stomach dropped.

I couldn't shake it. My body reacted before my mind could rationalize it away. I felt nauseous. Unsteady. But still — I stayed present. I kept moving forward. I told myself there had to be another explanation. A reasonable one.

There had to be a reason he hadn't answered his phone that day on the road.

There had to be a reason for what I had seen and never mentioned.

It couldn't be what my instincts whispered.

He couldn't sit beside me in church, holding me so closely, listening to these words — and be the man my thoughts were accusing him of being. He couldn't be living something so dissonant with this moment and still show up like this. Still touch me like this. Still feel so connected.

So I did what I had always done.

I pushed it down.

For three more days, I buried it. And I did it well. I smiled. I functioned. I showed up. I kept the mask firmly in place.

But masks, no matter how carefully worn, always crack.

And three days later, enough was enough. I couldn't carry it anymore. I couldn't pretend anymore. I couldn't silence my spirit anymore.

So I took the mask off.

And once I did, there was no going back.

That part of the story — what happened when the mask came off — I will tell when I'm ready. Some chapters need more healing before they need an audience. But I can tell you this: the deer were right. The fight was coming. And it was never the fight I expected.