Category Archives: Moving Forward

Nov 17 2011
5 Comments
Moving Forward, Sad

Maybe We’ll Work it Out Someday

Wednesday came.

I was wisely dubious of my husband’s intentions to actually show up at either the Mediation or marriage counseling appointment.  Sure enough, he had an excuse, and wanted to re-schedule the appointment with the Mediator.  I was beyond frustrated, but not surprised.  The Mediator had a stick-it-to-you 48-hour cancelation policy, and charged $350.00 an hour.   I didn’t have the money to shell out for my husband’s no-show.  I panicked, called and pleaded for grace in canceling the appointment only 24 hours prior.  The Mediator extended it to me.   I’m sure she has to deal with flaky people all the time.

Furthermore, my husband refused to attend the final meeting I had set up with our marriage counselor.  I was firm with him – I did not want to see or talk to him without a third party present.  I knew that I wouldn’t be able to withhold my emotions, and I didn’t feel like being manipulated any further.  We exchanged emails regarding the matter, but he patently refused to attend.

He didn’t want to meet with anyone but me, and also didn’t want to be flogged with failure.  He accepted responsibility for contributing to the demise of our marriage, but also felt that he had tried.

I told him I was still going, regardless.  He asked me to meet him afterward.  After much deliberation (and encouragement from my marriage counselor), I agreed.  Perhaps this meeting would bring the closure I had been looking for, all along.

I left my appointment and trudged across the street to Conrads.  Ironically, the restaurant was situated directly across the street from my counselor’s office — at the church where we had been married ten years earlier.

My husband was waiting for me in a sunken booth by the window.  My heart sank when I saw him.  Yet, as I scooted into the vinyl seating across from him, it all felt so familiar; comfortable.  I half expected him to crack some inside, lighthearted joke about the whole ordeal, and then we’d forget about the whole thing and just go home, take Wimbley on a walk and watch TV, as if nothing had ever happened.

Other couples struggled and got divorced.  That was never us.  It wasn’t ever supposed to be us.

For a fleeting moment, I forgot that I didn’t know him anymore.

People change.

I ordered a cheap glass of red wine and an expensive, low-quality chicken salad.  We attempted conversation, but it kept going back to the old, familiar arguments.  I hadn’t supported him when he “needed me most”.  He hadn’t communicated with me when I needed the security of our relationship – especially after the trust was betrayed, and then further broken. 

At some point during the conversation, I encouraged my husband to immediately file a response to my petition for divorce, and then asked him to relinquish the house over to me via a Quitclaim Deed that I had already prepared.  His job was to get it signed, notarized and delivered to me.  The house would be mine.  He agreed.

And then, he cried.

I sat there and watched him, and felt like a cold-hearted bitch.  I was still angry with him.  Perhaps I was even more frustrated than angry.  Deep down, I wanted to believe that he hadn’t become this new person that I genuinely didn’t like.  Yet, his actions spoke louder than any of his words, or tears.  In 24 hours, he’d be back on a plane to Australia.  Same, familiar story.  Always about the story.

We finished our meal, not really having resolved anything.  We walked to our separate vehicles.  I noticed he was driving his parents’ car.

He asked me if he could hug me.  I bristled, but finally allowed it.

As his arms enveloped me, his familiar scent wafted into my nose.  I relaxed, and wrapped my arms around him.  Tighter.  We held each other.  A tidal wave of emotion washed over me and released itself in the form of a single tear.  My body sighed.

I didn’t need to look up at him to know that he was crying, as well.

After what felt like an eternity, we let go of each other.

Our marriage just ended across the street from where it began, I thought to myself.  I took a sharp breath in through my nostrils.

I started to open my car door, but turned back for a moment.
“Hey,” I offered, hesitantly – “Do you want to hear a song I sang recently?”

“Sure,” he said.  He always liked hearing me sing.

He walked around to the passenger side of my car and slid into the seat.

I pushed play, and we sat and listened to an extremely rough recording of me singing a very beautiful, poignant and moving song.

How high, how wide –
no matter where I am, healing is in Your hands.

After the song finished, we sat in utter, complete silence.  I stared out the windshield at the sun setting behind the scattered clouds.  The flourescent parking light buzzed, then flickered on and off, on and off.  I could feel the heat of my husband’s body next to me.  He breathed, slowly: in through his nose, then out.   An elderly couple exited the restaurant and grabbed hands as they walked to their car.  Somewhere, in the distance, I heard a crow caw.

I finally broke the silence with a random thought.

“Do I need to get tested again?”

He spoke softly.  “No.”

He fumbled for the door handle, then looked at me.  “Maybe we’ll work it out someday.”

I shrugged.  “Who knows?”

“I love you, Leslie,” he said, as he got out of the car. “I have never shut the door on you; on us.  I don’t think I ever will.”

“And I love you,”  I answered, truthfully.

He then shut the door and walked away.

Nov 09 2011
1 Comment
Bad Behavior, Battling, Moving Forward

You Got Served

I woke up the very first morning at Curt and Kathy’s, my heart pounding.  I had just experienced a very vivid dream, wherein I yelled at my husband:
“YOU’RE A CHEATER, A LIAR, AND A BAD ONE, AT THAT!”

Later that day, I received an email from him.  It was almost as if I had conjured him up.

He was flying back to LA in a little over a week. He needed money to book his plane ticket, and a check would be arriving at our house very soon.  He asked me to deposit it into his account.

I never responded.  I was too exhausted from the move to even deal with him, but I was still anxious about getting him served.  I prayed and journaled.

It was interesting to hear Curt voice, “You left your husband”.  I guess that I did.  I left my confused, narcissistic, derelict, infidel husband, who is still hurting me with his insistence on getting information from me…I don’t NEED or WANT this.  I want him served, and OUT OF MY LIFE!  I want a NEW life; I want to be whole; I want to be LESLIE SPENCER and meet someone new.  I PRAY he can be served this week, before he comes home (if he even comes back)…after me packing the house and saying goodbye to it and my old life and my neighbors…

Such sadness now.  Reality once again.  God, have mercy on me.  God, hear my cries.  You see my tears.

I am not strong.  I am tired of being strong.

Nothing I ever thought would be.  I kind of want to die.

Two days later, my husband emailed me again.
I don’t want to be rude, or pushy, Les, but that money is a little important. If you can’t or won’t do it, can you at least let me know where the mail is going so I can try and get someone else to deposit?

I was furious, but knew that any emotional reaction would only just hurt me in the long run.  I vented to my best friend, Joy.
I HATE HIM SO MUCH!  I HATE HIS GUTS!  I HATE HIM HATE HIM HATE HIM! HATE!!!  RAGE AND HATE!!!!  WHY THE HELL IS THE MONEY ALL OF THE SUDDEN SO IMPORTANT??  It wasn’t important yesterday.  

ASS! ASS! DOUCHEBAGGERY!  

Okay, I feel better.

I then carefully responded to the email.
I understand how important money is.  All of your mail has been forwarded to your parents’ address, so you should contact them about the check. The new tenant is not responsible for our mail.

Ten days passed.  He finally re-appeared.

April 29, 2010
I just landed in LA. It feels like a different planet. I have no idea where you are or what you want to do.

April 30, 2010
I know that you are probably dreading seeing me…or to be honest I have no idea what you are feeling. Absolutely no idea. I will be here for a week then I go back to Oz. I’ll be in Pasadena later today, I think, if you want to see me…I don’t like emailing you like I would a stranger…

I panicked.  The one-legged ex-boyfriend/process server had not gotten the chance to serve my husband the papers.  I learned that he had actually tried to make an appointment to see my husband, but the people at the magazine offices said he wasn’t available, or didn’t know when he’d be “in”.   I thanked the dear guy for all his time and hard work, and offered him my first-born son.  Via FedEx, of course.

We both agreed it was a valiant effort, and became Facebook friends.

At least my husband was back in town.  I had to figure out a Plan B.

It just so happened that our dear friend and former pastor, Tim, had flown in from his new home in Portland, Oregon.  He was in town for the week to take a class at Fuller Seminary.  Tim was really the only close friend of my husband’s that I had ever trusted to be a good influence in his life.  Ever since discovering the truth about my husband and his small “cast of characters”/travel companions, I was sickened at the very thought of them, and their life choices.  His crew has manipulated, deceived and hurt a lot of people.  Most of us have stopped “drinking the Koolaid”, so to speak.  I pray for the ones who are left.

I digress.

When the affair was first revealed, Tim was the only person to whom my husband would talk, or listen.

I met up with Tim over dinner at Joseph and Katie’s and threw out the idea of him serving my husband the divorce papers.  He did not hesitate, and agreed to be “on call”.  Although it wouldn’t be as dramatic as the covert, one-legged, serve-your-papers-in-a-pizza-box operation, I knew that God had worked it out in His perfect timing.  My husband would be served by a good, faithful friend.  The intention was to do it with love and grace.

Everybody needs some grace.

I cannot think of a better person to have executed the deed.  I also started to think that I’d probably want to hang onto my firstborn son, should I be blessed with one.

May 1, 2010

YOU ARE ON THE PATH OF MY CHOOSING.  There is no randomness about your life.

OH, LORD!

He was served yesterday at Curt and Kathy’s.  He had emailed me in the afternoon asking to see me and I texted Tim; asked him if he could do it that day.  Yes.  So husband showed up at 2:00 p.m.  I was playing the piano when he arrived.  I answered the door.

“How are you?” I said, as I opened it.  I didn’t know him.  He was a different person.  Total stranger.

“Uhhh, not that great,” he answered.

“Want something to drink?”  I offered.

“What are you drinking?”  he asked.

“Water.”

“I’ll have some water.”

“I’ve got cheap beer, too.”

“Yeah, I’ll take cheap beer.”

We go outside.  Commence conversation.  He wanted to know what I was up to.  I told him.  Back at the Co-Op, doing a show in July, singing in a casual band.

And then I noticed he wasn’t wearing his ring.  It made me flub my words a bit…finally I got to the point:

“Why are you here?  What do you want from me?”  I asked.

He was unable to accurately explain.  Talked about how he was done, finished, and — “looking at you now, I still feel finished.”

I said, “Okay, well, to be honest, I filed for divorce and Tim is coming over right now to serve you papers.”

“Why do I have to be served?”

“Because it’s legal.”

And we argued.  Talked about the house.  He won’t give me the house; said he wanted me to buy him out, and he would give me “a deal”.  Clearly he just wants money.  Then he talked about how I ruined it all – he really needed me, and my support while he was in Australia, but it just broke down; I cut off communication, etc.

It was just all the same bullshit storyline.  I’m not buying it anymore.

He asked me what I had been up to but I didn’t want to share very much.  He asked why, and I told him he wasn’t in my life anymore.  And that the lesson I have learned was that you don’t leave the person you love.  Ever.  I said I’d take that into my second marriage – you don’t leave.

Tim showed up, and talked with him.  I went up to my room but eavesdropped from the top of the stairs.  My husband was spouting off about me, how I said “this and that”, sent a “constant barrage” of emails. Tim, being the gracious and patient pastor and person that he is, observed that we were not hearing each other.  True.  poor communication.  Husband accused me of throwing him under the bus to everyone, to which I yelled from the top of the stairs, “NO, THE STORY SPEAKS FOR ITSELF”.

He yelled back, “YEAH, OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!”

Yuck.

After a while, I rejoined Tim and Husband, and talked to Husband about his sick stories I found in The Man House.  He denied, denied.  I asked why I would make up the Russian interpretation.  Why would he write his Leave Them Wanting Less stories and have detailed accounts of his sexual history?

“I have no sexual history,” he replied.

I calmly said, “YES, YOU DO.”

Ugh!!  The lies, the denial.  De-ni-a-l.  I don’t have to DEAL with him anymore, thank you Lord!

Husband talked with Tim some more and Tim told him he needed to be wiling to sacrifice his career for his marriage.  Husband flat out was — and is — NOT willing to do that.

“All she wants is kids,” he spat.

“And why is that bad?”  Tim asked, gently.

Husband accused me of wanting it only my way, and he would be stifled by it.  He argued that “traditional” was not who he was, and I knew that when I married him.  And he was, in part, right.  But eventually I DID and DO want “traditional” things, like, say, stability?  A family!  A faithful husband.

Tim finally left.

Husband wanted to talk to me.  I went downstairs.  I handed him his bank stuff and checks, along with the $300.00 I had received from the sale of his motorcycle.  He refused it.

He held the manila envelope.  Served.

He held his head in his hands, and started to cry.

“This is tragic,” he said, quietly. I think I saw a tear fall.

I pointed out that he got what he wanted.  I also told him I thought he was sick.  I was grabbing my own hair and saying, “YOU ARE SICK, HUSBAND.  SICK.”

But in the end: he was sitting there – looked pretty bad.  Very skinny, bags under his eyes.  Emptiness behind his eyes.  I started to cry, a bit, and apologized for the awful things I had said in the past.

I explained that this was not what I had wanted, even back on that September night when I learned the truth.  But now it WAS what I wanted.  I had moved too far forward to take a step back.  I kept saying that Husband would find someone else, and it wouldn’t take him long.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

I just looked at him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”  His voice got a bit higher.

“Come ON,” was my response.

NOT ONCE did he apologize.  Not ever.  Blame, blame, blame.

He asked me where I was going to church.  I said I didn’t want to tell him.  He wanted to know why.

“Can’t you guess where I’m going to church?”

He guessed correctly, and asked me how it was.

“It’s really good.”

And then he wanted to know how Joseph and Katie were doing.  I started to cry.

“They are great.”

I told Husband that I had – and always will have – fond memories of our marriage.  It was great.  We were good together.  I had no regrets; I gave all I could and he said that he felt the same way, so we could just agree that it was mutual.  Over.

“Sometimes,” I explained, “there has to be a death in order for a resurrection.”

I asked him why he was there.  What was his plan?  If he was done, then was he going to file?  Why was he back in LA, anyway?  How was he going to end it?

He said he didn’t have a plan.
“I’m not like you.”

He told me I never gave him a chance.  He said he was owed money “all over the world”, and he knew he was bad about collecting it.  He needed a Secretary to help him.  Like me.

What the fuck?  I’m not going to be anybody’s Secretary.

I said I was glad he was making money, and good luck with it.

UGH.  SO gross.

Then I said I thought he should have done whatever it took to save the marriage.  If he truly wanted it, then he would have been willing.  HE GOT WHAT HE WANTED.

“You’re free,” I said.

“We could have been free together,” he replied.

“No, we couldn’t have.”

THEN – he asked me if we “could at least go to lunch or something.”

My mouth dropped open.
“NO.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not a good idea.”

WHAT THE FUCK!??!?!?  You just got served and you’re asking me out?  Really?!  What part of NO don’t you comprehend?  You don’t have “an affairs” and then keep leaving your wife and expect her to stick around.

NO WAY!

So then he asked me if I wanted him to leave.  I hesitated and semi-shook my head.  He asked if I were glad he was going back to Australia.

“No. I never like it when you leave.  I never have.”

He got up to leave.  I walked him to the door.

“I should have done whatever it took,” he said to me, sunglasses on.

“Yeah, you should have.”

“That’s the story.  That will be the story I will write for the rest of my life.”

Always about the stupid story.

He walked out the door, but turned back around.  I think he was going to say something, but I had already closed it – firmly – and walked away.

I never looked back.


Nov 05 2011
5 Comments
Moving Forward, New beginnings

Goodbye, House

I had two weeks to move out.

Within ten days, I sold the majority of our belongings, and stored only those items I figured I would need for my future: the digital upright piano, music, kitchen items, a table, and a couch. My plan was to live with Curt and Kathy for at least six months, and then move back into my house once my tenant’s lease was up.

I was beyond determined to keep my house, but for the time being, I had to let it go.

So many people helped me.  My college (now close) friend Jessica, came over on Easter Sunday and helped me sort through and throw away a bunch of clothes. My sisters came over frequently and let me put them to work scrubbing floors, cleaning out the hot tub and sorting through more clothes and jewelry.

Andrea helped me exorcise The Man House.  In a ridiculous ceremony filled mostly with laughter, a couple of beers and — shall I say —  “unladylike” gestures, we re-named the space “The Vagina Mansion”.

My dad called and/or came over every day to help with whatever I needed.  He is such a good man.

Church and theatre friends responded to my pleas for help by buying, transporting or storing furniture.

My neighbor, Lisa, spent hours helping me pack and organize the garage.

My college roommate left her husband and three children 200 miles north to spend the last weekend in my house with me.  We cleaned, scrubbed, organized and giggled, just like old times.

One of the sisters of my husband’s “cast of characters” came that weekend, as well, and cleaned out my refrigerator, amongst many other daunting tasks.  We worked alongside one another and marveled at the strength of women.

The house was filled with love and support, even though it was being emptied of the remnants of my ten-year marriage.

During the days, I felt beyond blessed.  Nights were harder.

God, I need to be honest: I am so sad.  I am sad that my husband left me.  He won’t even communicate with me.  I know that his problems run deep and that his absence really doesn’t have anything to do with me. It’s all HIM.  But it is still very hurtful; painful to have been abandoned.  Cast aside.  Rejected. Strangely, I don’t have ill will toward him. I wish I meant enough to him for him to turn his life around.  But, again, I can’t turn this on myself.  I guess not having ANY answers is what is so frustrating.

LORD GOD, I wanted to be married.  I wanted a husband and a home and a family.  And now I am single, homeless and unemployed.

God, I don’t understand.  Fill me. Fill my emptiness.  YOU are here.  You.

In the midst the moving frenzy, I was trying to figure out a way to get my husband served.  I had started the process of divorce by filing, but he needed to legally “receive the message” and then file a response, in order for the divorce to move forward.

The problem was that I had no idea where he could possibly be, or if I’d ever see him again.

I became increasingly anxious.  I just wanted him out of my life, but had to do it properly.

Since I had decided to forgo using a lawyer, I researched the serving process as best I could.  I narrowed it down to two options: (a) hire a process server in Australia to hunt him down, or (b) serve via publication in an Australian newspaper.  Neither seemed very promising until Option A fell into my lap.

My dear college friend, Melissa, had a one-legged ex-boyfriend (yes, true) who was now married and living in Australia.  He just so happened to have worked as a process server at one point in his life (pre or post-motorcycle accident, I am not sure).  Melissa got in touch with him.  After hearing my story, he offered to take a day off work to drive to Sydney to track down and serve my husband the divorce papers, free of charge.

It seemed like an amazing plan, so I immediately him sent the papers via FedEx.  It would take a little while, but my anxiety was relieved.  Thank God for one-legged ex-boyfriends/international process servers who are skilled in covertly hunting down douchebags.

Then, unexpectedly, I received an email from my husband.  He didn’t know where I was, what I was up to, how I was feeling or what my plans were.  He also wanted to know if his check had arrived.

My heart was filled with anxiety once again.  I was no longer committed to picking up the pieces of our obliterated marriage, yet I was hurt and infuriated by my husband’s continued selfishness.

I carefully worded my response.

It’s been a long time since we have communicated.  I honestly would prefer to talk to you in person, not over email anymore.

The last check that came through was at the end of February.  Nothing since.

Do you have a mailing address in Australia?

He didn’t really have an address down under, but said I could send emergency mail to the magazine’s office.  He then told me of his plan: he would be returning to Los Angeles in a few weeks, and then return to Sydney.  Of course, we didn’t have to decide anything over email, but he was not happy with the way we ended, at all.  He went back and read through our emails from the start of his trip and was disappointed.  He explained that he was excited at the possibility of what we could have created, but that it had been shattered into a million pieces.

I shook and sobbed as I read the last part of the email.  I did not understand how he could still continue to freely blame me for the ending of our marriage, especially from thousands of miles away.  He never once lifted a moving box or wept over a picture in a frame. He didn’t even know I had filed for divorce, and he certainly didn’t seem to care.  Furthermore, I had just sent the papers to Australia; would he be home before he had a chance to get served?   I became angry at myself for not having filed for divorce the very second I had learned of his affair.

The very thought of his laziness and cowardice sent pulsating waves of rage, hate and malice through my blood.

But I did not have time to mourn or be angry.  I had to keep going.  I had to move out.

April 17, 2010

Everything is clean, done.  I am moved out.  I am sitting here on my deck for the last time in this chapter of my life. 

Amy drove with me over to Curt and Kathy’s before heading back home.  I have all my stuff there.  It’s hard.  God, I am sad and my heart is heavy.  The life I built here is gone.  And still my home remains, but nothing inside.  Oh, Lord, it breaks my heart.  So much work and time and I know You have a plan for me but I am still holding on.  God, I need your help in letting go.

Isaiah 41:10 ~ So do not fear, for I am with you: do not be dismayed, for I am your God.  I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

I went back inside after penning my prayer, and headed through the open hallway towards the back bedroom. There was a heaviness about the room as I entered.  Oh, that room where so much love and pain had been shared.  I took a picture of the sunlight as it struggled to stream in through the window and warm the freshly painted wall.

I wandered down the short hallway and snapped a picture of the bathroom, then the guest bedroom.  Then, I headed out to the main part of the 900 sq. foot house.

I sat down in the middle of my living room.  The original hardwood floors were still shiny and wet from having just been mopped.  I listened to the birds as they joyfully sang outside.  A gentle breeze floated through the open bay window. The sunlight poured in with ease and illuminated the deep, warm color of the floor. The house seemed so small in its emptiness, yet it seemed to creak, groan and yearn for newness and hope.

I sat, silent, only for a little while.  Goodbyes are never easy, but I would be back.  I took a deep breath, smiled, and patted the floor.

“Goodbye, House,” I whispered.

Little did I know that day, I would never set foot in my house again.

Oct 31 2011
9 Comments
Hope, Moving Forward, Scary

Beauty Will Rise

The day after I filed for divorce, I started moving my husband out.

The plan was to take his belongings to his parents’ house, with little to no explanation.  I did not want any of his family to know that I had filed for divorce, simply for the fact that I could not trust them.  They would surely go bat-shit crazy on me.

Joy was there to help me.  She started in the Master bedroom, taking on my husband’s side of the closet, and whatever else might be hiding under the bed, in the drawers, cabinets, etc.  I had recently discovered an overdue parking ticket and credit card bill buried deep beneath a pile of sweaters.  I didn’t want to deal with any more surprises.

I decided to tackle “The Man House” (basement), which was a slightly bigger project.  It was full to the brim of my husband’s “toys”: knick-knacks, gifts from students, surfboards, wetsuits, Samurai swords, collectible Star Wars figurines, a couple of skateboards, and the like.

This would be it: the last time I’d have to look at anything that physically reminded me of him.  Energized, I started sorting through a basket of his teaching books and papers.

Almost immediately, I found something horrible.  Two things, actually.

There, on a single sheet of crisp, white paper, was a cluster of Russian writing.  The handwriting was clearly female.  Underneath, my husband had scrawled out the English interpretations of the foreign phrases, all of which were sexual.  I read descriptions of what my husband and his 24-year old Ukrainian student/lover had done —  or wanted to do — to each other.

My mouth went dry.   It was the most explicit thing I had ever read, until I discovered the next item.

Right underneath was a thick packet of my husband’s articles he was writing for a particular magazine.  The series was entitled Leave Them Wanting Less.  My eyes scanned the first story.  Within the third paragraph, my husband detailed having raucous, drug-enhanced anal sex with a “hot” flight attendant in an airplane bathroom.

Just elements of the story.

I dry heaved.

Shaking, I exited The Man House, holding the papers between two fingers, as if they were diseased.  I breathed noisily as the groans started to well up inside of me again.  I forced them back down.  My heart felt heavy and my blood ran cold.  I stumbled into the house and searched for Joy.

I found her in the bathroom, cleaning out the medicine cabinet.

She took one look at my ghostly-white face and reached for me.

“What’s wrong?!”  Her eyes flashed with immediate concern.

“I…I…”

I couldn’t breathe.

“What is it!!?  Are you sick? What happened?”

I collapsed into the tiny bathroom’s doorframe and tried to speak.  I raised my right arm, and gestured towards my hand, which still gripped at the writings.

“This…I…found…sickness…evil…dirty…disgusting…darkness…I…c…can’t…”

She pried my fingers away from the papers and studied them, briefly.

“Get rid of them, now,” she ordered, horrified.  “Don’t go back down there. Just leave it.  You don’t need this.”

I swallowed hard.

“Okay,” I managed.  I was sweating; feverish.

I took the papers from her and dizzily made my way back to the kitchen.  I fumbled through the drawers until I found a lighter, and carried the entire operation outside.

I squatted in the dirt and lit all four corners of each individual piece of paper on fire.  I squeezed my eyes shut so I would not be able to take in any more of my husband’s sickness.  The ends of the paper curled up as the small, orange flame struggled to illuminate, then swallow, the darkness.  I stood up and watched the white turn to grey.

Then, finally: fluttery, black ashes.

I went back into the house, grabbed my phone, and started texting my close circle of friends, begging for help.  I felt bad for doing so, since Easter was the very next day.

My pastor and dear friend, Joseph, showed up almost immediately, as did my dad, and neighbor, Eli.  Together, the five of us were able to get almost everything out of the Man House, into Eli’s truck, my dad’s minivan and Joy’s car.  Only a few surfboards remained, which Joseph neatly organized, then stacked together.

Joy called my in-laws and explained that the house had been leased, and we needed a place to store “some” of my husband’s belongings.  They accepted.

So, the “bombing raid” (as my dad dubbed it) began.  I watched the caravan of three vehicles carry the physical remnants of my husband back to his parents.

I breathed a huge sigh of relief, and went back upstairs.  On my way back into the house, I passed by the pile of ashes.

Later, it would rain, and wash them away.

This rain feels like a huge cleansing, I wrote.

God, I know he is forgiven, and even though it is difficult to imagine myself ever near him again, I think I can get to a place where I can forgive him —  even for what he is doing right now…it is so sad to watch him be destroyed and enjoy it.  (He is) destroying himself…oh, God, release me.  Release me from the burden of his sin.  Release me from the burden of loving him.  I do not know Your will; I am blinded by my pain.

And so I struggle, but I do honestly want to thank You for this crisis. 

It is making me into the woman You created me to be. 

It is so difficult to not want to forge ahead and taste the future.  I am scared, God.  I don’t want to move.  I love my house and my neighbors and the comfort of being here in my home; my haven.

Yet, You are calling me elsewhere.  I am following You, Lord…and I pray that You would continue to guide me; be patient with me, dear Father.

I cannot see.

Months and months later, a sweet friend of mine would give me a copy of Steven Curtis Chapman’s latest album, “Beauty Will Rise”.  I will be the first to admit how uncool Christian music can be, and have tried to avoid it as much as possible.  Yet this particular album comes from a very real, deep, personal, painful yet beautiful journey through a tragic loss.

What resonates is hope and beauty.  Beauty from the ashes.

It will take our breath away to see the beauty that’s been made out of the ashes.

Out of these ashes, beauty will rise —
And we will dance among the ruins,
We will see it with our own eyes.
Out of these ashes, beauty will rise —
for we know joy is coming in the morning.

Out of this darkness, new light will shine,
And we’ll know the joy that’s coming in the morning.

Beauty will rise.

Oct 27 2011
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I love Jesus, Moving Forward, New beginnings, Sad

Stamp.

April 2, 2010 ~  Good Friday

I Corinthians 4:16-18 ~ Therefore, we do not lose heart.  Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.  For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.  So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

Father.

It is a beautiful morning.  Quiet and crisp.  The birds are singing. Wimbley is with me, atop this deck.  He’s on the lookout.  This week has been the biggest of my life: leasing the house and letting go of my husband.

Lord, I do not know what you have for me, but I’m willing to go.  I am focusing on You.  May my heart be seen by You.  I love my husband, I do.  Yet I love myself and I know he is not right for me like this.  This is not the husband that loved me, or You.

Oh, these times I have cherished in my own backyard.  Moments with You – all moments with You.  On my knees, on my face; sobbing, hurting, pleading, wondering – and now (I sit) before You and feel peace.

I lift my husband up to You.  God, he needs you desperately, as I do.  Jesus, as You said on the cross so long ago – “into Your hands I commit my spirit,” and – “It is finished”.

I am so tired.  I know more work is ahead of me.  But may I remember this Peace – Lord, I am anxious but I trust You.  I trust that this is the right thing to do.

Ten years, five months and three days.

I trust You.  Lead me!

April 3, 2010

This is the first day of my new life!

I filed for divorce yesterday.   Tried to file at the Pasadena courthouse but was told that I had to go downtown.  Shaking.  Andrea accompanied me and we passed by the Disney Concert Hall; tall, beautiful buildings downtown.  Entered the courthouse and went up the escalator.  Brief feeling of good memories with him on the escalator.  How we used to kiss and hug whilst riding on one.  Wave of sadness.  Up to the 4th floor.  Line looked long but it didn’t take but two minutes.  This is what people do, everyday.  They get divorced.  They stand in line to get divorced.

Wrote check for my court fee.

“Memo…memo…thanks for 10 years?  Thanks for cheating on me?  Abandoning me?  I still love you?”

No…memo was, “GOOD FRIDAY”.

White out, caked and crumbly.  Must fill out “Central District” instead of “Northeast”.  Shaking.  Andrea helps fill in “111 N. Hill Street”.  Court address.

Sounds that will haunt me forever: the sound of stamping.

STAMP.

Frantically fixing court address on all copies.

STAMP.

The clerk’s calm voice: “This is complete”.

STAMP.

Writing faster.  Head spinning.  Weak knees.

STAMP.

“This is complete.”

I hand him the last paper.

STAMP.

“You’re all done, Leslie.”  Clerk is calm, almost sympathetic.

My head hits the counter and I start to sob.  Andrea grabs my folder and helps me out the door.  We are both crying.  I can’t breathe; I can’t find the door.  I can barely walk.  I am wearing a black dress and black Stuart Weitzman heels.  (Husband would love the detail.)

I calm down as I get outside – see the Concert Hall before me.

I text all my friends as we walk to the car.  “10:32 a.m.  I filed for divorce.”

And we “celebrate”, but it is a mixture of drunkenness (sadness), excitement for the future, and exhaustion.

Went home, took a nap.  Joy came up from Orange County to stay with me…we drove to Long Beach so I could sing at church.

It is, after all, Good Friday, the day that You died for me. The day that I attribute the death of all sin, and the death of my marriage — only now it is committed into Your hands.  Only You can resurrect and redeem. Maybe not the marriage or my husband, but me.  You can redeem ME.

Good Friday service I could barely hold my head up to sing, but You gave me strength.

How high, how wide!
No matter where I am,
Healing is in Your hands.
How deep!  How strong!
Now by your grace, I stand –
Healing is in Your hands.

Oh, God, in You I am, indeed, complete.

Oct 26 2011
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Moving Forward

April Fools

The next day, I was ready to file for divorce.

I woke up that morning, determined to get it done as swiftly as possible.  I made an appointment with a mediator (whom my marriage counselor had recommended), and went in for my “free consultation”.   She gently explained the process, and gave me all the information I needed to file the first document.  Of course, my husband would need to respond to my petition for divorce. Once he complied, we would go back, together, and hash out the rest of the paperwork.

Oops.  Slight problem. 

“I don’t actually know where he is,”  I explained. “He’s not even in the country, and doesn’t have any plans to return. We’re not really communicating right now.”

“Oh.”  She looked at me.  I almost heard her say what we both were thinking: One of those guys.

“Well, does he know you’re filing for divorce?”

“Um, no,” I answered, cautiously.  “I think he wants to be divorced; he just doesn’t want to take the initiative, himself.”

She then gave me some advice on how to legally protect myself.  The official date of separation should be backdated, to protect my future.  That way, I would not be responsible for whatever debt he was incurring at that very moment.  She shared a few horrific examples.

I nodded and jotted notes on the front of the angrily-labeled “DIVORCE” folder.

Date of Separation: March 1, 2009.  I had only been in New York for two weeks.

Suddenly, I felt the room grow smaller.  I could hear the blood rushing through my head, and was very aware of my own heartbeat.  The mediator kept talking, but I couldn’t really hear what she was saying.  My body felt as if it were levitating off the overly-floral, pastel couch.   I felt dizzy, and tried to focus.  There was a thin layer of dust atop the leaves of the fake plant in the corner.  The mediator’s credentials were all slightly off-center.  Her fingernails were perfectly manicured.  I marveled at how neatly organized her desk was.  It was almost too perfect.  I wondered how often she had to visit her hairstylist to get her roots done.  Bad frost job.

I blinked, and heard myself calmly answer her next few questions.  I made another appointment to see her in two weeks.  Hopefully, by that time, my derelict husband would have returned, especially since she charged by the hour.

She stood up and offered me her right hand.  “I’m sorry you have to go through this, but it sounds like you made the right decision.”

Another green light.

I fumbled with my documents, shook her warm, soft hand, and walked to the door.  I smiled, feebly.

“Thank you.”

I didn’t want to go home, so I found myself driving towards Jeff and Jenny’s house.  Almost as soon as I pulled out of the parking garage, I lost it.

Horrible, ugly groans arose and wretched from the depths of my being.  I have never heard those sounds emitted from myself, and it scared me.  I clutched the steering wheel at 10 and 2, screaming.  I sobbed and screamed; screamed and sobbed, and those groans continued to well up and fill the the tight cabin of my Toyota Corolla.  Tears and snot became one as they drained from my face, onto my lap.  I used one of the blank divorce forms to blow my nose at a stoplight.  All I could do was try to breathe in and out.  I shook, uncontrollably.

My soul hurt.  I could feel it.  I can’t explain it, other than I have never experienced anything like it.   It was beyond my heart and my stomach.  It was painful and cleansing all at once.  The deep, low sounds accompanied each inhale and exhale.

Later, I couldn’t help but think those groans of grief were, indeed, spiritual.

Romans 8:26 ~ In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness.  We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.

I reached Jeff and Jenny’s, and knocked on the door.  Jeff opened it, saw my face, and enveloped me in a huge hug. I really needed it.  Jenny held me, too, and then offered me a glass of water.  I sunk into their couch and thanked them for letting me come over—I didn’t know where else to go.

Of course I was welcome.  Anytime.  (I have amazing friends!)

We talked for about an hour, quietly, since their bouncy toddler was taking a nap.  Feeling encouraged, I slammed the rest of my water, stood up, and announced,  “Well, I’m going to go potty, and then get divorced.”

All three of us burst out laughing.  More hugs ensued, and I was off.

I sat in the car, across the street from the beautiful, downtown Pasadena courthouse.  I rolled down my window and frantically filled in the first document, but quickly realized I had a problem.  I didn’t have a physical address for my husband to be served the petition for divorce.  I decided to use his parents’ address, but they had just moved, and I didn’t know where they were.  They didn’t even have a cell phone.  I panicked.

I couldn’t save my marriage, and now I couldn’t even get divorced.

I ended up calling my husband’s (twice-divorced) uncle in Hawaii.  If anyone would understand, it was he. I explained what had happened, and how I had reached that point. He listened intently and expressed his sympathy.  He then offered to help me, and even prayed with me over the phone.  He would have to call his mother to get the new address, but promised he wouldn’t say anything.  I was grateful; relieved.  It might be a couple of hours before he could get back to me with the information.

It was getting late in the day, and the courthouse would soon close.  I felt discouraged, but knew that I must be patient.  As I hung up the phone with my gracious uncle-in-law, I had a major revelation. A huge grin spread across my face.

I had just tried to file for divorce on April Fools’ Day.

Oct 24 2011
3 Comments
Moving Forward

YOU Have My Heart

Within a few days, I had found a tenant for my house.

It was, in Christian-ese terms, what we call “a God thing”.  A kind, energetic, older woman was driving through my neighborhood to look at a short sale up the street.  She saw the “FOR LEASE” sign in my front yard, and knocked on my door.

I showed her the house, myself.  She walked through it in 15 minutes, loved it, and wanted it.  Being a Master Gardener, she was excited to take care of the massive yard, complete with overgrown, indigenous plants.  In addition, she didn’t mind that I wasn’t including the garage or basement (aka “The Man House”).  She was also interested in a six-month lease, rather than the typical year.  That would give me enough time to get on my feet financially, so that I could move back in — soon — with a fresh perspective.  I was determined to keep my house.  Furthermore, I told her that my dog and outdoor cat would stay, but the neighbors would take care of them.

(Have I mentioned how amazing my neighbors are?)

She agreed, and said she was looking to move in by April 15th.

Holy shit, God.  This is exactly for what I have prayed. You are so good.  Sorry for saying “shit”, but…HOLY SHIT!

Things were moving so fast.

I sent yet another informative and “non-reactionary” email to my husband regarding the prospective tenant, and then called upon my trusted friends – my amazing support system —  to pray that he would sign the lease agreement.  I couldn’t trust him to even respond to my email, much less be responsible about our home and finances.

March 30, 2010

Deuteronomy 33:27 ~ The eternal God is your refuge…

Lord, I trust You.  I confess my fear and anxiety – moving out in 16 days? No response from [my husband], which just isn’t surprising at all, but I need his signature to go through with the process.  God, it is too easy to worry, so I simply give it to You…

The pain of my failed marriage is still very real, but it no longer holds the power over me that it once did.  Thank You, God.  I am so sad for [my husband] and his choices.  I trust that the still, small voice that is encouraging me to move forward is YOU…I know dark days are still ahead but I TRUST YOU.  Guide me, help me.  I know nothing is beyond You.

Later that day, I paid a visit to my marriage counselor.   He was aware of our situation, and actually encouraged me to file for divorce.  He said that it looked like I had “the green light” from all sides. My friends, family and neighbors were 100% supportive of me divorcing my absent husband.

Before I left, my counselor told me that he wished my husband and I could have had one final meeting, so that we could end our marriage face-to-face.  I wished that, too, but, deep down, I knew it would never happen.  My husband had left me.  It was over.  I had to move on.

March 31, 2010

Lord,

I crave Your Presence and Peace.  I confess my anxious thoughts, my feelings of being overwhelmed.  The fear of the unknown; the fear creeps back in: losing the house and having to take on my husband’s debt.  But Father, I know You care for me, You have been taking care of me and guiding me this whole time.  I pray for this next big step – moving.  It is overwhelming and happening so fast.  And then, the “BIG D”.  I have NO reason or desire to stay married to him…God, SPARE me the repercussions of his actions.  I know there is no fear in You.  Yet the overwhelming sense of self-protection is there.

GUIDE me, God.  Each minute, each hour, each day is crucial.

I want to be beautiful and whole again; I want to be loved and honored, not discarded and abandoned.  Oh, Lord, You have taken me thus far; I trust You even though I cannot see.  Give me courage and strength.

LATER…

The house is leased.  He signed.  Said he knows I’m right about the house (even though he wants me to sell), but trusts what I think/say about it.  He then asked me where I will move.  It hurts.  And now I must pack and move.  He doesn’t even care.

God, You have my heart.  YOU.

I AM EXCITED ABOUT THE FUTURE!  I am in YOUR hands!

Oct 21 2011
4 Comments
Moving Forward, Self Discovery

Hot French Waiter

Another week passed.  My husband and I continued to exchange emails, although they were not as frequent. I asked him to come home, and he kept telling me that he was “done”.

It didn’t hurt as much anymore.

The house was on the market for lease, and I started fervently praying for a good tenant.  I specifically prayed that I could find one by April 15th.  I listed most of our furniture on Craigslist, even my husband’s beat-up old pick-up truck.  Ever since discovering the condom in the glove box, I couldn’t bear to look at the vehicle. The truck was registered in my name, but, as a courtesy, I asked him if I could sell it.

He gave me permission to sell it.  Money — right then — was more important than the truck.

So I did.  Everything else started going like hotcakes.  Within a week, I had sold our custom-made couch, an armoire, a dresser, my marriage bed, a vanity table and random bookshelves.  The piano movers also came to finally pick up my piano and deliver it to its new owner.  As I watched the men carry it down the stairs, I wept, bitterly.

My husband had taken everything from me, even my music.

Yet, God is good.  I had sold the piano to a student of mine.  In addition to purchasing the instrument from me, her kind father sent over his daughter’s digital, upright piano for me to keep.  I thanked him profusely.  To this day, I still play my piano. 

My dear friend, Christina, flew in from North Carolina and spent the week with me.  It was so good to have the distraction, and a friendly face in that cold, lonely house.  We drove to Malibu, lunched at Duke’s, shopped at the Grove, hiked to the Hollywood sign, hung out in WeHo at a gay bar, and ate dinner on the Sunset Strip.  On her last night in town, we dressed up and patronized my favorite local French restaurant.

I had been a regular customer for a few years, and always admired the attractive men that ran the place.  When I walked in, my favorite “hot, French waiter” — also an owner — immediately recognized me.

“Lessslieeeee!  Where have you been?!”  He hugged me, hard.

“New York!”  I laughed, as I caught my breath and tossed my hair.  “But I am back now.”

“Back for good?”  His French accent was delicious.

“Yes,” I smiled.

He led us to our table, pulled out my chair and offered me a seat.  Then he leaned into me, and said, matter-of-factly, “Good”.

Christina and I squealed at his swagger, his “Frenchness” and dapper demeanor.

Free bellinis ensued, as did flirty conversation.  Hot French Waiter continued to swoop past our table.  I continued to swoon. Finally, he made it known that he had split with “his lady”.

“Oh, you’re single?” I asked, casually, as I sipped my bellini.

“Yes.”  His voice was low, and he looked straight into my eyes.

“Me, too.”  I stared right back.

“Really?  What happened?”
Hot French Waiter had seen me several times over the years at his restaurant with my husband.  In fact, the two of them had even made plans to go surfing together, yet my husband never followed through.

“He…just decided he wanted to be with someone else, and then wanted to be somewhere else,” I offered, honestly.

A wide grin spread across Hot French Waiter’s face.  He shrugged.
“Zat eees life!”

And he was off, to bark orders at the kitchen staff and pour some more wine for a young couple, sitting nervously in the corner.

Christina watched him bustle about the room, her mouth agape.  Her eyes shot back to me.

“Oh, my LORN, he likes you,” she said, excitedly, in her adorable Southern accent.  She decided to plan a trip to the bathroom, and predicted that, while she was absent from the table, Hot French Waiter would come back and talk to me.  I laughed it off.  I was no where near his league, although, I had to admit that I had fantasized about him for years – ever since I first set eyes on him.

Christina re-folded her napkin and got up from the table.

“Be right back!”  She winked at me, and bounced off to find the Ladies’ Room.

Sure enough, Hot French Waiter swooped back in.  This time, he sat down, right across from me.  He wanted to know if my husband and I were still talking.

“Yes…well, no, not really…”

He touched my naked, left hand.  “How long has it been?”

I took a deep breath, basking in his fragrance.  Oh, my god, he smells so good.

“Six months, seven…”

He grinned again.  “So you’re good.”

“Yes.”  I crossed my legs and my short skirt revealed a little more thigh.

“I’m ready.”

I didn’t actually know what I meant, but it felt good to say it.  It also felt amazing to have an incredibly attractive man pay attention to me.  Touch me.

Hot French Waiter barked more orders  — in French — from his seat.  The other attractive waiter was to bring a specific bottle of wine to our table.  Before whisking himself away again, he leaned in, as close to me as possible, and whispered, “You smell good.”

I tried not to pee my pants.  OH.  MY.

Christina found her way back to the table, where I sat, starry-eyed and drunk, but not from the two sips of bellini that I had previously ingested.  She raised her eyebrows at me, knowingly.

“See?”  She smiled, and sat back down.  The candlelight flickered at our table.  We erupted into laughter.

We thoroughly enjoyed our meal, drank the bottle of wine that was offered us, and reveled in the joy of the evening, not to mention the past week.  I was so grateful for the company and support of my good friends, to keep me grounded and help me through the loss of my marriage, as well as my home.

Before we knew it, it was midnight.  The nervous couple in the corner had relaxed, and were finishing their bottle of wine.  I scraped the last of our shared creme brulee dessert onto my spoon. Christina sighed.  She didn’t want to leave Los Angeles the next day.

Hot French Waiter approached our table one last time and delivered the bill.  It did not reflect the bellinis or fancy wine.

Then, suddenly, he asked for my phone number.  He wanted to know if I wanted to “get together sometime”.

SERIOUSLY?

I eagerly wrote down my phone number on the back of the bill.  Ten minutes later, he sent me a text.

Nice to see u, here is my number.

I wrote back.  “Good to see you, too!  Looking forward to getting together.”

Me too let’s talk soon.

That night, I lay in bed and basked in the glow of the evening.  Deep down, I knew I probably wouldn’t get together with Hot French Waiter.  After all, I was still married.  Yet, for the first time, I tasted the thrill – and freedom – of singlehood.

It might not be so bad, after all.

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