The Christian Girl's Guide to Divorce

May 19 2013

Ramblings

Everything and Nothing

A couple of months ago, I was asked a difficult question by one of my readers.

If you could do [marriage] all over again, what would you do differently?

I froze. It seems impossible to deliver eloquent wisdom, when my answer seems to continuously change with time.

I feel as if I’ve gotten past the constant emotional state of my divorce, and towards a stable, steady path of healing and forgiveness. I don’t think of myself as “divorced” as much as I do “single”. But suddenly, a memory will pop up, or I’ll actually hear from X’s ass face. My blood pressure rises, and I immediately want to punch him out.

I may be a Christian, but I’m still human.

I’ve noticed still-tender wounds and scars in dating relationships. Recently, I found myself not believing that someone would love me for me. How would he not quickly discard me for someone else?

That’s fucked up.

But it’s all part of the process.

What astounds me sometimes is the fact I was married to X for ten years. That length of time is not something you can undo overnight. It helps to have little to no contact with him, and, despite the initial shock and hurt, it really helps that he re-married so quickly (albeit illegally). I want, very much, to wish him well. At the same time, I want nothing to do with him, ever. We will never be friends, and I’m quite fine with that. The person he became is grossly unattractive to me. And, to be fair, I’m probably equally as unattractive to him.

For as long as we both shall live, however, neither one of us can escape the fact we were married for ten years. Surely we had something good. I loved him fiercely. I know he loved me. I will never deny that. Yet, as time continues to march on, I can look back and see how different we once were — happy, in love and with similar life goals — and how quickly we grew apart. Sometimes I think we were just too young. I was as naïve as good little Christian girls get. I have often wondered if I was just a fool to have married my first love. But then I think about my best friend in high school – most definitely my very first love (I was too afraid to admit it) — and wonder, if I had married him, would we have survived?

There are no guarantees. Just choices.

As comically messy as my marriage became, it is very easy for me to point the finger at X and blame him for the entire disaster. Having been a part of his life for fourteen years, we knew one another deeply; intimately. I may not have had an affair(s), but I admittedly put my career above my marriage. I was selfish and dropped the ball, too. I am equally to blame for what went wrong. That’s marriage. It takes two.

Wow. It is not easy for me to say that. At all.

With all the self-awareness and introspection I have experienced over the past three years of my singlehood, I have come to the realization that an extramarital affair is just a symptom of a greater problem. It makes me profoundly sad my ex husband felt he had to seek what he needed outside of our relationship.

Yet Tim Keller says it best in his book, The Meaning of Marriage :
“Why discard your partner for someone else only to discover that person’s deep, hidden flaws?”

What I know of relationship now is so much different from what I practiced in my own marriage. For example, if I seek my identity in my partner, I will always be disappointed. I will crush him with my expectations, and he will crush me with his imperfections. Neither one of us will ever be complete in just each other. X would have never made me whole. Only God can do that. Consequently, any man with whom I enter into relationship again cannot fill that God-shaped hole in my heart.

I sound so cheesy right now. But it’s the truth. I am only just discovering the ability to enjoy being alone and not feeling empty. God is with me, always. I need Him, always. I cannot do this life on my own. Not for a second. He is the only one who can hold me when I’m hurting; He is the only one who can love me unconditionally and perfectly. I am wholly, completely His. Any relationship in addition to that is just an added blessing.

So, what would I do differently?

Everything and nothing.

I am grateful for a second chance at love, relationship, and hopefully, marriage someday. I will give it everything I’ve got, round two. Again, there are no guarantees, but I am ready to try, especially with someone who chooses to stick with me, and I him. It will be worth it. I believe it with my entire being.

I would not be who I am today were it not for my divorce, and all the moments – good and bad! — leading up to it. I wish my marriage hadn’t failed, but, four years later, I’m actually relieved it did. I wish hadn’t acted so crazy in the end. I wish I hadn’t said hurtful things. I actually imagine, someday, X will forgive me, and I him, and our lives will continue to drift in sharp, contrasting directions on the vast, unending sea of grace.

May 18 2013

Epiphany

Lounging on the grass at Sheep Meadow in Central Park. Baseballs, frisbees and soccer cleats whiz by. Lovers lie, quietly entwined upon blankets; families picnic, loudly. Chatter, music, laughter and life abound.

Suddenly, it hits me. I notice the corners of my mouth are turned upward, in ever so slight a sly grin.

It’s not about what I do. It’s not about finding a man, furthering my career, bemoaning the decline of opportunity for motherhood or wanting anything more than I have this very instant.

It’s about who I am.

And, this very moment, I am exactly who — and where — I’m supposed to be.

Apr 28 2013

4 Comments

Adventure, Beauty

Serving the City

I am sitting in the corner chair in my subletted room in Harlem, staring out the window.

Hurricane Sandy destroyed one of the two, rendering it filthy and unable to open, but the gentle breeze flowing in from the north side of the room provides enough refreshment. The open window also amplifies the street noise: horns honking, emergency sirens, trash truck operation and accelerating taxicabs. Perhaps the most fascinating sound of all is people, yelling. The residents of Harlem yell, shout or scream all of their communication: greeting, curses, conversation and confrontation.

It’s just how they do.

There is no relief from the bright color in the room. The curtains, bedding, accessories, appliances, picture frames — you name it – are all one color. When the sun rises in the morning, my room is flooded with a blinding hue of hot pink.

My 26-year old roommate’s cat, Captain, has descended the windowsill after observing two men yelling — and laughing — across the street. He now lounges across the small sliver of sunlight that warms my toes and the wood floor underneath. Captain appears peaceful, calm and sweet. Dare I rise from my chair and walk past him, he will attack me, mercilessly dig his claws into the flesh around my ankles, and sink his teeth into my Achilles.

It is never pleasant. Yet, somehow, I still feel compelled to pet him, refill his food dish and shower him with attention whenever he demands it.

Two doors down, at Peaches ‘n Klean, my laundry is fluffing in the dryer. The sexually ambiguous person who manages the place is either folding socks or eating a platter of takeout whenever I enter. She (he?!) dresses in a long-sleeved plaid shirt, oversized, fatly cuffed denim pants, and steel-toed boots. Her (his?) short hair is always slicked back behind a stiff-billed baseball cap, and her (his?) eyes are hidden behind Transitions lenses. For some reason the lenses remain dark.

The only reason I assume she (he?) is female is the presence of rather large, droopy breasts behind her (his?) shirt.

Sexually Ambiguous regales stories to her employees, but mostly for the benefit of anyone who will listen. She yells tales of her brother attending high school with Jackie Robinson, brags about how she knows Aretha Franklin — “She ain’ lost weight! Las’ time I saw her, she was all dressed up in yellow, lookin’ just like Big Bird!” — and what she will eat for dinner when she is “done foldin’ dese damn socks.”

“I’ll tell you what I’s gonna do, ” Sexually Ambiguous shouts.
“I’s gonna git me a can of spinach, cut up some damn garlic, sprinkle a little pepper and olive juice on it, and mix it all up real good. MmmmHMMMMMMM! Shit’s satisfyin’.”

I am the only one giggling in the laundromat.

*****

It’s the end of April, and spring is finally here.

I never truly understood why people on the east coast so eagerly awaited the arrival of the season until I moved here. It’s always spring in California. I think it glorious, yet terribly monotonous. You see, after a long and bitterly cold winter, with blinding blizzards, stinging rain, icy wind and slushy, dirty snow, even the slightest hint of sunlight on one’s face brings a flood of hope. Change. A feeling of accomplishment. Relief.

Winter is behind us.

Most trees and flowers have burst into full bloom, displaying a brilliant arrangement of color, pattern and texture I have never before experienced. Only a few trees remain bare, or struggle to produce budding flecks of green upon their branches. Perhaps they are afraid to open up. Some days, winter seems to return with a vengeance, and we all question if this new season of warmth, breeze and comfort is here to stay.

This past week, however, each morning has proved faithful. The sun warms the east, even through cloudy skies. The birds chatter, chirp and sing noisily. Winter coats have been sent to the dry cleaner, and there is sudden, massive exposure of very pale limbs.

I realize how great of an accomplishment it is to have survived the winter. I secretly hope the more figurative winters of my life are behind me. At the same time, I’m not afraid of them anymore. Like all seasons, they come and go.

*****

As I begin month four in New York City, I am still living out of a suitcase. I’ve attended several auditions and haven’t gotten a single callback. Hell, I’ve even accompanied myself on the piano, and still haven’t managed to raise an eyebrow or impress the people behind the table. I am not discouraged yet. These things take time. And politics.

Not all is in vain. I have finally secured steady work, teaching voice, piano and musical theatre students at a school in Brooklyn (just wait for their dating advice!). On the off-days and weekends, I cater.

One of the very first catering events I worked in the city was in February. My job was to serve hor d’oeuvres at a very large, extremely expensive and increasingly drunken party for Fox Sports. In attendance were sports celebrities, executives and employees of the company. (I am happy to report Troy Aikman accepted my offer for a crab cake on a crisp, fancy blue napkin!) As the hours dragged on, I became discouraged. I escaped to the bathroom for a moment, sat on the toilet with my head in my hands and felt sorry for myself.

“LORD!” I whined. “I did not move to New York to be a servant! I’m here to make a difference! To pursue my dreams! Not serve people!”

As soon as the prayer left my lips, I realized how ridiculous I sounded. As clear as anything, I heard the following:

Oh, but you are here to serve, Leslie.

I lifted my head, laughed and brushed away a tear.

“I got it, I got it. Good one, God.”

****

Month four proves I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I am so glad I took that leap of faith and moved here. God is beyond good. Maybe I’m not a big Broadway star, and maybe I never will be.

I can’t believe I’m saying this — but — it doesn’t matter.

I think I finally believe God will grant the desires of my heart, because they’ve changed. At the same time, God has answered my prayers in the most loving, faithful and gentle way, all the while guiding me towards the next adventure.

The greatest adventure of all? He’s asked me to serve.

This city.

And, for the first time in my life, I am completely content.

Mar 23 2013

9 Comments

Christian divorce, Hope

Divorce Group

I attended a Divorce Support Group through Redeemer Presbyterian Church this week.

Honestly, I didn’t want to go. I imagined a bunch of weepy, jaded women sitting in a circle, holding hands and re-hashing their traumatic divorce experiences whilst chanting mantras of strength and hope. I didn’t want any more reasons to be angry with derelict, cheating or lazy husbands, and I certainly didn’t want to find myself crying over X.

I’m so over that guy.

I would rather shed tears over my most recent boyfriend, the bludgeoning of baby seals, or the fact that it takes me 45 minutes to commute to the gym.

Still, I hoped to learn something new, or perhaps help another attendee in her struggle. After all, I have a book coming out on the topic. I’m an expert on what it’s like to be messily divorced, and actually thrive in the aftermath. (Right?)

I added a teaspoon of sugar to my cup of strong, black tea, sat myself down on a cushiony chair in the plush, Upper West Side apartment, and began to listen.

Andi Brindley was our guest speaker for the evening. Though physically present, she opted to share a video testimony. In the film, she described her family background, early recognition of her parents’ marital struggle (they eventually split), and her own divorce after four children and 30 years of marriage.

All ten of us sat in a semi-circle, sipping harmless beverages and crunching on mini carrot sticks, and crackers dipped in hummus.

So far, so good, I thought to myself, as I glanced over the group. Nobody’s crying. I think we can handle this.

Andi calmly explained how the dissolution of her marriage came to fruition. Her husband was a workaholic who ended up hospitalized from the stress and exhaustion of planting a church. He eventually changed careers, which lead him to travel even more. One day, Andi’s husband left for Washington, D.C., and never returned.

“The day he was supposed to return home,” Andi nodded to the camera, “he faxed me a letter that said, ‘I’m going to stay in this area for a while to give you the separation it seems you want.’”

Not long after, divorce papers were served.

“I never thought this would be my life,” Andi lamented. “I was completely disoriented; devastated. I had devoted my life to not arriving at this point. At yet, here I was.”

“YES!” I heard myself almost shout, and heads turned. I flashed an apologetic grin and shoved a carrot in my mouth. Next door, a young child plunked lazy scales on the piano, then pounded out a lightning-fast version of When the Saints Go Marching In.

The video continued, with Andi’s court date.

“Truthfully, it was kind of a non-event at that point,” she said. “The judge…read through the papers…and we were done. It was strange. But that’s not the most memorable part of that day.”

Ooh, this is getting good! I thought, excitedly. I adjusted my sit bones on the chair, and leaned forward, allowing my imagination to run wild. I half-hoped Andi would share something deliciously evil that her ex-husband had done, or reveal that she, too, had a Sister Wife. Perhaps there was a lost love child in the mix?!

“The day was ending, and it was time to go to bed,” Andi’s televised voice competed with the neighboring pianist, who banged louder on the keys.

“…and I thought, ‘You cannot wake up with these rings on your fingers. They don’t belong there…I found myself dropping to my knees by the bed, and as I took the rings off, I found myself so moved – not by the sadness of the moment – but…overwhelmed by God’s faithfulness to me.”

I gasped. Andi continued.

“I said to [God], ‘I want to give You the devotion that I thought I would be giving to an earthly husband. I want You to have it for the rest of my life. You are the only One worthy of my whole heart and devotion, and it’s Yours forever.’”

Suddenly, without warning, my heart lurched forward in my chest, sending a wave of explosive tears up through my throat, sinuses and eyes. Hot, salty tears streamed down my face. I heard a few other women sniffle, but I felt I was the one crying the hardest. 72-year old Ellie quickly passed a box of tissues.

So much for the “expert” keeping it together in Divorce Group.

Andi’s testimony continued long after the video ended. I found myself crying even more as she expressed a real, continued, deep struggle with her faith. Although her divorce was final over ten years ago, Andi still wrestles with the familiar darkness and loneliness that accompanies dissolution of marriage. Her husband has since re-married.

Andi has not. Yet she is content.

As I left Divorce Group that evening, I wondered if I could ever be like Andi: calm, quiet, strong, faithful and trusting, knowing the God of the Universe is all we ever really need. I started to think about how far He’s brought me, how much I’ve changed over the past four years, and how my divorce is the best thing that ever happened to me — only in that it made me fall to my face and cry out in desperate need for Him. I have met and grown in relationship with God, who loves me more than any human being could ever be capable.

I truly hope to be married again someday, and I deeply hope to bear children. I long to be a mother. It’s not up to me, however. My job is to keep trusting; keep putting one foot in front of the other. I do so sometimes with strength, and sometimes stumbling, but I know, without a shadow of a doubt, God is with me, holding my hand, ever so tightly.

Feb 28 2013

2 Comments

Beauty

Alone and Smiling

Yesterday, I spent the entire day alone.

I woke up alone, ate breakfast alone, worked alone and took myself to dinner, alone. I sat at the noodle bar at Momofuku in the East Village, next to two men who were also alone. Not a word was spoken between the three of us, even though we occasionally elbowed one another as we reached for our water glasses, or picked up splintery, wooden chopsticks to resume eating.

After I finished my exorbitantly-expensive-yet-delightfully-delicious bowl of ramen, I had nothing else to do but head back to the apartment in West Harlem. I had long since thrown out my plans to hit the gym, but the thought of hurrying home to be alone for yet another evening was almost too much to bear.

I decided to take a walk. It was quite nice out. The rain had stopped, the sky was clear and 44 degrees actually felt comfortable.

I made my way towards Union Square, passing by quaint, candle-lit restaurants packed with couples and parties of friends, enjoying their meals with full glasses of red wine.

I began to notice how many other people were out, walking. Each person had a place to go, with such purpose. People briskly passed me by, chatting on their cell phones, heading to yoga or home from the grocery store. Couples kissed on street corners. Some argued. Businessmen closed one last deal before entering their apartments. Women in heels hailed taxicabs. Children either played with toys, or slept in plastic-covered strollers. Dogs in sweaters relieved themselves.

As I walked and observed, the street numbers kept growing. Soon, I had gained twelve blocks. Fascinated by the life around me, I continued on foot.

I decided to conduct an experiment. I would look at each person who passed, and try to make eye contact. If they met my gaze, I would hold it. If they stared back, I would smile.

I know. It’s totally creepy of me.

At first, it was hard to grab anyone’s attention. Most New Yorkers walk with their heads down or eyes glued to their cell phones. Granted, if it’s cold or raining out, we bury our faces in thick scarves or protect them with gigantic umbrellas.

Soon enough, people’s eyes began to meet mine. Almost instantly, however, they would break contact and look down, or away, towards traffic in the street.

I kept walking and searching faces.

At 5^th Avenue and Bryant Park, I noticed a little red-headed girl with bouncy curls, holding tightly to her father’s hand. I surmised they had just come from the ice skating rink. I smiled at her sweet face, and then made eye contact with her father. Almost instantly, his face erupted into a beam of gleaming, white teeth. It was the widest, proudest smile I have seen in a while. I couldn’t help but feel my own smile grow, and, soon, tears sprang into my eyes.

I started to feel less alone.

At East 42^nd Street, across from Grand Central Station, I noticed a very attractive man in a business suit. I singled him out and stared him down. He felt my gaze, met it with intensity, and flashed a warm, almost-flirtatious smile. I blushed and hid my teeth.

I wanted to run after him but didn’t. It was enough just to be acknowledged. (All right, I may or may not have placed an ad in NYC’s “Missed Connections”.)

Still, street numbers grew. I strolled past the infamous Apple Store, horse and carriages, joggers and dog-walkers in Central Park, towards the Upper West Side. At times, I forgot my experiment and transformed into a woman with a purpose. As I quickened my pace, I became frustrated with slow movers and tourists (as all New Yorkers do), but ultimately remembered I had no reason to hurry home.

At 66^th Street, across from Lincoln Center, I walked by a homeless man on my right, who was pushing a very heavy shopping cart. Two very expensive-looking, fur-clad women passed us at the same time. The man boisterously called out to them.

“Hey, babies, how’s about ten dollars?” His voice mimicked that of Louis Armstrong’s, and I could tell he had a sense of humor.

I burst out laughing, and whirled around to watch the exchange. The rich ladies ignored the man, but his eyes met mine.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking!” I shouted to him.

He grinned, and opened wide his arms. “You gots to try, don’t ya? You have yo’sef a lovely evening, young lady!”

I beamed again.

“You, too!”

Sixty blocks and five miles later, with my heavy bag still slung over my now-aching shoulder, I decided to board the train at 72nd Street and ride the rest of the way up to West Harlem. I slid my Metro card, pushed my hips through the turnstile, hurried down the stairs, stuffed my ear buds in and sat down in an empty, orange seat on the 3 train.

With music softly playing, I scanned the crowd. Slowly, subtlety, people began to smile at me. I almost forgot the Cheshire grin, still affixed to my face.

Eventually, smiles faded, and we returned to ourselves. Yet, somehow, I know we all felt a little less alone.

Feb 24 2013

19 Comments

Dating, Funny, Ramblings

Clichés and the City

Last night I rode the train home after seeing my old college friend perform in a sketch comedy show at the Magnet Theater. When I rounded the corner on 28^th Street, I heard the train approaching. I scurried down the stairs, through the turnstile and heeded the familiar musical warning that the doors would soon be closing.

There, I saw him: a beautiful specimen of a man, holding the subway doors open for me.

We rode the train in silence. I avoided eye contact but inched as close to him on the crowded train as possible, hoping for the screeching brakes or sudden jerk of movement to propel me into his arms.

Eventually, he sat down, and I sat next to him, only to have him give up his seat for an elderly woman.

The fire in my heart grew.

At 110th Street, he disappeared. I was left disappointed, but relished in the blissful memory of twelve subway stops of unrequited love at first sight.

I shared this story via social media, half-laughing at it all. Yes, the man was gorgeous, and yes, my heart skipped a beat when his pant leg brushed against my black leggings. Yet, for all I know, he’s got a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Or both. Maybe he’s a narcissist, or serial killer. He might have sleep apnea or an abhorrence to brushing his teeth. There are a million ways why this fantasy love story will never work, and I know it. Still, it’s fun to imagine. I’m somewhat of a hopeless romantic.

The commentary that immediately followed on Facebook, Twitter, in person and over text was astoundingly full of clichés. It was almost as if I had shared my story, desperate for an answer. Quite the contrary!

I know everyone is trying to be helpful, but if one more person delivers a cliché in response to my tales of singlehood, I’m either going to scream, or vomit. Perhaps both.

The following are a list of phrases I will pay to never hear again.

1. The right one will come along, or God will bring the right one to you.

First of all, I’m not one to just sit around, waiting for things to happen. Secondly, how can I argue with a cliché, starring God? He is in charge of everything, but He’s never promised me a second husband. At this point, I’m just trying to get a decent date. Furthermore, I do not believe in “The Right One” or “The One”. I believe you pick someone, and make it work. In all my years of therapy, I have learned chemistry and compatibility are the two most important factors that make up a relationship.

Chemistry: You’ve got to want to make out with the person all the time, because eventually, they will annoy the crap out of you.

Compatibility: You’ve got to get along with them initially, and have similar goals, because eventually, they will annoy the crap out of you.

But, you make it work, because love is always worth the risk.

2. When you stop looking, you’ll find him.

Thank you for insinuating I am so desperate for a man in my life, I am constantly looking for one. There are days I rejoice in my freedom, and there are others when I am trying so hard not to look, all I see is dog poo on the sidewalk.

The truth is, anyone who is single and desires to be in relationship WILL NEVER STOP looking, hoping, wondering and dreaming, no matter how much we try to deny it.

3. Do what you love, and the rest will follow.

This statement is actually less an annoying cliché and more frustrating truth. I moved to New York to pursue my career goals, not to find a man. At the same time, refer to cliché #1. If a man happens to cross my path (perhaps on the subway), I will not reject him. But if he’s not interested, I’m not going to stalk him. (Okay, maybe a little…)

At this point, I am doing what I love, and what I hope to immediately follow is a hard-earned paycheck.

4. Timing is everything. Be patient. Maybe he’s not ready yet.

I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to wait around for someone to figure out what to do with me. I want to be in a relationship with a man, not a boy who doesn’t know what – or who — he wants.

5. He’s out there, somewhere.

Whenever someone says this to me, I immediately think of the love of my life, floating silently through the galaxy in one of those heavy-yet-gravity-free, badass space suits. I giggle at the mental picture, and then start to feel sorry for him, being all alone “out there, somewhere” (most likely, lost in the time-space continuum).

Maybe he’s in Indiana.

You know what else is “out there, somewhere”? Giant water buffalo. Babies being groomed to become sumo wrestlers. Dogs who wear sweaters. A cure for cancer. The next teary-eyed winner of a reality television talent competition. The eighth wonder of the world. My Tony, Oscar, Grammy and Pulitzer Prize Awards. Buttermilk.

6. I don’t understand how someone as smart, talented, articulate and beautiful as you can still be single.

The right one hasn’t come along yet. God hasn’t brought him to me. Maybe I’m looking too hard. Perhaps I’m too focused on doing what I love to do. Maybe it’s just not the right time.

Or maybe you should just ask me out.

Feb 23 2013

6 Comments

Forgiveness, Grace

Raindrops in a Sea of Grace

I woke up late this morning to raindrops on the fire escape. The tiny beads of water line themselves up in rows of eight to twelve along each metal railing and stair. They linger until the moment you look out the window and catch a glimpse of all the fire escapes on the surrounding buildings. The chorus of raindrops glitters and gleams as high as your eye can see. Slowly, one by one, they flutter to the pavement.

I decided I needed to write today.

Besides finding stage work, one of my goals in New York is to finish my book. I think I’ve been talking about completing it for almost ten months now, but haven’t written one word past Chapter 72. I know I have to end the story of the divorce, for the sake of the book.

At the same time, and not to make any more excuses, I feel as if I’ve been living the ending. Two years after pleading with God to help me end my divorce and move to New York, I am finally here.

The details matter, of course. I just don’t want to re-live them.

A few days ago, I started to write the “real” Chapter 73. I opened up my old journal and emails, and began plugging away. The more I read through three-year old communication with X, however, the angrier I got.

Why did I stay married to that guy for so long?! I screamed at myself. Every word of his on that computer screen reeked of bullshit; mine of desperation. It’s amazing how love can blind us. Yet, when two people choose to love each other, it can paint an incredible, rich canvas of life. Everything is redeemable. Anything is possible.

* * * * *

After an audition yesterday, I met up with a lovely, talented actress/director friend who just so happens to be divorced, as well. She is happily re-married to a faithful, loving man.

“Can I ask you something personal?” she asked, her piercing teal-blue eyes staring straight into mine.

“Absolutely,” I responded, my mouth full of hot bread and warm olives. Traffic outside our corner window table started picking up. Gentle flakes of snow fell to the ground, and the busy street transformed into a palette of color: grey sky, yellow cabs, black umbrellas and bright, multi-colored scarves.

“Have you been able to fully forgive X?” Her question was direct.

I paused, about to pop another green olive into my mouth.

“I don’t know,” I sighed. I carefully placed the olive back on my plate.

I began to explain how I think I have forgiven X as much as I am humanly capable. The rest is up to God. If I stop and think about how X betrayed himself, first, then me, our marriage and everything for which we stood, I get angry. It looks like he got away with all of his shenanigans, and moved forward, almost seamlessly, into a whole new life, without consequence.

He’s actually been blessed.

The honest, human part of me wants him to suffer, perhaps just so I can feel like the fourteen years I spent in relationship with him were not a total waste.

Yet.

God’s incredible love, combined with the mystery of grace, is so powerful. I cannot think about what my ex husband has and I don’t. It’s a waste of time, emotion and energy. My new life has already been set in motion, and I get to live, free. I am free to pursue my dreams. I am free to love again, and I truly believe that love will be deeper, stronger and more incredible than anything I have ever experienced.

I also realize, in telling my story — even in re-living those painful, sometimes embarrassing details, God is able to continue to heal parts of me that are broken.

I am swimming in a sea of grace.

* * * * *

As the rain continues to fall this briskly balmy Saturday afternoon in New York, I think of each individual drop as contributing to that sea of grace, of forgiveness.

One by one, each raindrop falls. Some, harder than others. Others linger on the fire escape, until just the right moment, when you’re ready to recognize the life and beauty in a single drop. Eventually, you’re soaked from head to toe.

And the most painfully beautiful part of it all is realizing everyone gets as much grace as you do.

Feb 20 2013

3 Comments

Adventure, Beauty, Healing, Hope, Moving Forward, New beginnings

New Me in New York, Part Deux

I’ve been in New York for two weeks now.

Even in winter, it’s everything wonderful I remember: towering architecture, flashing marquees, glowing stage lights and bright, yellow taxicabs; crowded subways and quaint cafes filled with people from all walks of life. The bustling noise and busyness is always offset by a quiet, wooden park bench, and the harsh wind and cold, made warmer by the coo of a lone dove perched on the fire escape.

I love this city with all my heart.

I’m staying in my friends’ apartment in West Harlem, while they are away for several weeks. A couple of months ago, while I lay sick in my bed in Pasadena, I declared over social media I was going to allow people to love me this year. Almost immediately, I received a phone call. My friends responded with, “Come to New York, stay in our place and pay what you can. And by ‘what you can’ — even if we don’t get a dime, it’s okay.”

I burst into tears, accepted their more-than-generous offer, and started packing.

Here I am, and I even survived – I’d say frolicked in — the big blizzard of 2013.

I heart blizzards.

There is always beauty after the storm.

It’s hard to not project into the future, however. I started looking for apartments so I can live on my own, but quickly got discouraged because I can’t afford it. I’ve been auditioning as much as I can, but nothing happens overnight. I need work, and badly. I want so desperately to be able to support myself and really make this happen. I am determined to not have to move back to Los Angeles, with my tail tucked between my legs, and nothing to show for my time here.

I’ve been given a second chance and do not want to fail.

*****

I’ve lived in New York City before. I moved four years ago, on February 13, 2009. X accompanied me on the plane ride out, for I didn’t want to go alone. I was still reticent about the decision we had made – and prayed for – together, but somehow I knew it was a huge step forward in my life.

We arrived at JFK and lugged my three tattered suitcases through the subway, towards Morningside Heights (Harlem). The same couple housing me now had offered their couch for a couple of weeks while I waited for the room I had rented in Queens to be available.

As we crossed the threshold into my friends’ tiny apartment, I immediately felt at home; peace.

X and I sat down on the blue, velvet couch and sipped homemade coffee with our friends. We all marveled at how I had finally arrived in New York, with a job, and an opportunity to shoot for the stars — at least for six months. I complained about having to swing the off-Broadway show I was in (I want to go back and slap my entitled attitude!), and worried about how I’d manage a six-month separation from my beloved husband.

The answer was simple: we’d endure. It was only six months. The potential opportunities were worth the possible struggle of loneliness and separation.

Yet, those six months – February to August, 2009 – were the cruelest, saddest and loneliest times I have ever experienced in my life.

“I love you more than anything, Leslie,” X reassured me, after we had finished our coffee, and were waiting on the curb for his airport cab to arrive, to take him back to Los Angeles.

I kicked a chicken bone out from under the heel of my boot and brushed the tears from my eyes.

“I hate the thought of not being with you,” I cried. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and your unwavering support and encouragement means the world to me. I could not do this without you. I honestly couldn’t have dreams without you, because I think you believe in me more than I believe in myself.”

“I support you one million percent,” X replied. “I will hate being away from you, too, but we’ll make it work. After all, we love each other and are most important to each other.”

The cab arrived. My husband hugged me, slid his tall, thin frame into the back seat, and drove away. I would see him in New York just once more in the following six months. Little did I know then, I had already lost him.

*****

Four years later – I have gained a whole new me.

As I have wandered the city these past two weeks, I know I am different. I feel it. I may be alone, but alone doesn’t necessarily mean lonely. I have bigger dreams than I ever had the courage to dream before. I feel calm. Humbled. Confident. Expectant. Excited. My future has never been more unsteady or unsure, but I know it will be all right.

I am not worried about failing. Just by being in this vibrant city this very moment, and every millisecond that follows — for however long I am able to remain – I have already succeeded.

Jan 24 2013

7 Comments

Adventure, Healing, Hope, Moving Forward

Lost Entry

I’m moving to New York in less than two weeks.

It’s surreal. It’s terrifying. It’s beyond exciting, it’s crazy, and it’s about time. I’m packing up my beloved, cozy Pasadena apartment – the place I have healed from my divorce for the past two years – and cramming it all into a 5×10 storage unit. A week from Monday I will board a plane with a suitcase, my book of audition songs, a pair of really good heels, my computer and a huge-ass smile.

I am going back.

Since I made the firm decision to go just four days ago, I have little time to pack and move out. Last night, my friend Lisa came over to help me sort and toss things I don’t – and didn’t ever – need. For example, I have a plethora of Post-It notes and an abundance of Scotch tape. I have rusted tools I don’t even know how to use, and I’ve kept a box full of tax returns dating all the way back to 1999.

Lisa opened up a bottle of ironic red wine and we got to work. Her task was to organize the Scotch tape. Mine was to sort and toss documents.

When I moved out of my house in April 2010, I made a point to keep only important or necessary things regarding my marriage (original marriage license; tax returns and receipts; mortgage and divorce papers). Still blinded by hurt, betrayal and raw emotion, I threw away almost anything else that reminded me of X and our marriage. I couldn’t bear even his handwriting in my new apartment.

I wanted all evidence of him in my life, gone.

I opened the box containing the ancient tax returns and found a mid-sized, bright, red notebook. I almost tossed it, sight unseen, but was more curious as to why my 2010 self had saved it.

I flipped it open, and took a sip of my wine. The first several pages contained audition information dating back to 2002. I wrote down every audition I had – including the Brian Setzer Orchestra (which had “BOOKED!!!” and a huge smiley face written all over it). Each successful page contained evidence of my marriage: scribblings on paint colors for each room in our house, a home repair “To-Do” list, plans for a happy dive vacation X and I took to Panama in 2005, and then, suddenly, notes from my first, desperate phone call to our marriage counselor, concerns about leasing our home, and a preliminary division of debt and assets.

For having covered so many years of our 10-year marriage, the notebook was only half full. The last writing contained a journal entry I don’t even remember penning.

I gasped as I scanned the pages.

“Lisa! Listen to this,” I exclaimed, as I set my wine glass down on the coffee table.

I leaned forward and began to read, aloud, the carefully printed lost entry.

October 4, 2009

I feel like having sex with X displays total weakness. I need it, and he gets it, but he doesn’t have to work very hard at — or for — it. There’s still no sign of emotional consequences for his actions. I don’t doubt at all he thinks of her while he is having sex with me. He doesn’t even really kiss me – and this new way he kisses is extremely different, which means he kissed her A LOT and apparently was taught not to slobber anymore. It makes me beyond angry to think that my husband’s lover taught him anything. She was 14 years old when X and I got married. I wish he would have done her then and gone to jail.

But I am weak. I am getting what I want, too, and if I can pretend he’s actually really into me, it’s a good day. I don’t feel so rotten and ugly and rejected.

X leaves for Spain tomorrow. I don’t even know when he will be back. No doubt he’ll pine after his lover – with all those romantic places and it being Europe and all. I don’t doubt there will be many a Spanish, Portuguese or Brazilian girl to catch his eye, and with his [male] companion there will be late nights and lots of parties.

Perhaps X won’t be tempted, but he certainly won’t be thinking about me. Me, the last person on his mind for the past six months. Yeah, it’s going to take time. What a rotten predicament. He’s the first person on my mind and I’m the absolute last on his. I feel like the nerdy, zitty, overweight teenager who is desperately in love with the popular, attractive and charming athlete – who doesn’t even know she exists.

X is barely aware of my existence. My own husband doesn’t notice me.

So I have given in and given him his needs and he gives back nothing but a hug or an arm touch here and there. What a stupid fool I am. Stupid, stupid fool. Thinking I can desperately try to get him to notice me, love me, need me, miss me – those days are over and another person has taken that place. I am cast aside like yesterday’s garbage. Maybe there’s something worth salvaging in the stinking, rotting trash can but there’s always something new or better where that came from.

I have no pride. I am totally broken. God, my only hope is in You. I still believe You can/will redeem my relationship with X, and I confess my total impatience. I also can’t force anything to happen. People don’t change, which absolutely includes me. He got tired of me and my “deal” and found, quickly, someone to take my place. And that connection is still stronger to him than anything he or I ever had because I am too familiar, too predictable, too blasé. Too “moral”. Too Christian.

All X can see is his career. Now I know what it felt like for him when I was in New York. It’s like some sort of cruel payback.

“Oh, God, you are my God. Earnestly I seek You. My soul thirsts for You, my flesh yearns for You. In a dry and weary land, where there is no water…” (Psalm 63:1)

“People,” says God’s wisdom, “do not expect either truth or consolation from other people. It is I who made you and I alone can teach you what you are.” ~Blaise Pascal

God, I feel like I am a walking contradiction. I am totally impatient for X – I so desperately want him to fall in love with me again and love me more fiercely and passionately than ever, yet I neglect my relationship with You in the process. No matter how much X rejects or hurts me I keep coming back for more. I concentrate on his unfaithfulness yet I am doing the exact same thing to You. I have been unfaithful all the while, to You.

God, I still pray for wisdom and strength; hope and trust. Just because X utters the words, “I love you,” and has sex with me does not mean he is faithful or true.

I want so much to believe him.

God, I pray for this trip he is taking to Spain. It could be the culmination of everything good and healing; of redemption, else it will just be a continuation of the same old story; of limbo.

But that is for him. Not me.

God, I seek You and trust that X will return to You (and me); I fervently pray for him; that You would protect him from the predictable, yet devastating wiles of the devil.

It does seem as if X has taken some steps forward – third time’s a charm! – but I am still hesitant to believe or trust him fully. I want to. I want our marriage to survive. And so I will commit to it and trust that You, Lord – You alone will move mountains and redeem us. I want my marriage to be beautiful and holy. But I might be the only one at this point.

Ephesians 6:12 – “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of the heavenly realms.”

God, have mercy.

* * * * *

God did have mercy. Additionally, He showered me with His love, kindness, goodness and grace. Because of Him, it has been revealed how strong, worthy and beautiful I truly am.

I am never cast aside. I will always be noticed. I will always be loved.

I want so much to travel back in time and tell my hurt, betrayed, dejected self everything will eventually be more than all right. That is not to say times will have been easy. Even as the pain and memories have faded, my divorce will always be a small part of who I am.

I surprised myself last night when, in addition to the lost entry, I found one of the very first (and only remaining) pictures I have of X and I together. We were standing on a beach in Santa Barbara, holding one another and grinning from ear to ear. It was obvious we were happy in love. Both my arms were wrapped around him, tightly.

I stared at his face, then mine, and his again. And I remembered, even last night, how I loved that boy. My first love.

I felt a strange sensation in my chest, and my throat tightened.

“Oh, my goodness, I’m going to cry,” I admitted, slightly embarrassed. I passed the picture to Lisa.

“It’s OK to cry,” she soothed, as the water welled up in my eyes. “You knew, even then, who he truly was.”

I nodded my head and allowed the tears to wet my cheeks.

“I did. That – I pointed to his fresh, smooth, familiar and happy face – “is the X I knew and loved, and want to remember.”

I dried my brief tears, and carefully returned the picture to its original envelope. I then placed it into the deep recesses of the accordion file, along with the single person tax returns I do need to save, for a few more years. It will all go into storage, until it’s time to move again.

And so, my life continues to catapult forward. This new adventure upon which I am about to embark is a huge leap of faith; a swan dive into the unknown.

One thing is for certain, however: God is with me. He was with me then, He is with me now, and He will be with me in the days, weeks, months, years and eternity to come.

Jan 05 2013

8 Comments

Adventure, Moving Forward

Lines in the Sand

I am home again.

After wrapping an incredible six-week Christmas tour via national television on December 23^rd, I spent one night in my own bed. I awoke the next morning, sprawled as far sideways across the sheets as possible. Bleary-eyed, I glanced at the clock and realized I had slept for 13 hours straight. I chuckled to myself, and was grateful to have slept, deeply.

It wasn’t but a day before I was on the road again. This time, it was for a week-long, desert camping trip.

I was invited and warmly welcomed by Joy, Micah and a troupe of their loyal, down-to-earth, yet adventurous friends. We did nothing but eat, drink, play cards, and giggle and groan at bad Lifetime movies.

We also sped across miles of sand dunes in really fast cars.

It’s the most exciting feeling, riding in a souped-up dune buggy. Most of these guys have been off-roading for years. They all know which lines in the sand to follow; what gear the rail must be in to accelerate into a wheelie going downhill on a dune, and they can even shift, mid-air, with nothing but the back tires gripping into the soft, unpredictable sand.

I want to ride in the fastest car with the craziest driver. And I do.

As a passenger, I scream with delight (sometimes terror), clap my hands and chew the sand that instantly sticks in my teeth.

It takes experience and wisdom to maneuver the dunes, but more than that, it takes absolutely no fear. The minute a driver second-guesses is the most dangerous moment for everyone. Sometimes the sand peaks into the most daunting, steep mountain, and you cannot see what’s on the other side. The minute you peer over the crest, you may find a gentle, easy edge, or a sharp cliff that can immediately turn into a plummeting hole.

Once you find a deep, soft bowl, however, safety abounds. You can go as fast as your heart desires, drift across the sand into sharp turns and truly trust your wheels, driver and leader — because you can see exactly where you are going.

I’ve camped out at Glamis with Joy, Micah and their friends once before. It was November 2011, and my first time duning. I immediately jumped onto a quad (ATV) and charged towards the dunes, alone. After all, I’m a damn fine driver, if I do say so, myself, and I like to ride with the big boys. At first, it was easy and fun. I have some experience riding, so I confidently took off. It only took one large dune for me to realize I didn’t know what I was doing. Instead of charging uphill and over the steep peak with no fear, I let off the gas. It was then I was in the most danger, for the quad was too heavy; the sand, unsteady. I began to slip backwards down the hill, towards the hole.

I panicked. I was sliding out of control. I needed to make a decision, and fast. Not moving forward was the most perilous situation of all.

Luckily, with the help of a burst of adrenaline, I gassed it and kept the quad from sliding any further. Instead, my wheels became lodged in the sand, halfway down the side of the precarious dune. The engine roared with authority, but my wheels simply spun in place, spewing sand.

Son of a suckass! I’m not going forward, but at least I’m not speeding backward. I’m stuck.

There wasn’t anything I could do but wait, and hope someone would find me.

After several minutes, I heard the sound of a motorcycle in the distance. “No Shirt Mike” (that’s what we called him) appeared, rushing to my rescue. He was relieved to find me unscathed (“Where the hell did you go? You just took off!”), laughed and congratulated me for my fearlessness (really?!). He gently coached me out of the mess I had created for myself, and instructed me to follow him for the rest of my ride.

I was embarrassed, but safe.

I had been so excited to charge by myself, I forgot the rules. No one should dune alone. You always need a leader. Preferably one who is experienced and trustworthy, yet fearless enough to be the one who tackles the sand first.

The best leader is one who knows the lines in the sand. One who carves out your path.

Once I agreed to follow No Shirt Mike, the rest was absolutely exhilarating. The hills that appeared insurmountable ended up being easy to tackle. It’s amazing how such tiny granules form the steep slopes and shaded — sometimes disguised — valleys in the desert. By following my leader, I gained confidence, skill and the ability to conquer the ever-changing lines in the sand.

……………

2013 is newly upon us, and I have a confession to make.

I’m scared.

My fear stems not from the peaks I am unable to traverse, rather, it is rooted in the knowledge that I can actually tackle anything.

This, of course, is only and ever due to the God of the universe, through whom I can do anything, because He gives me strength. (Philippians 4:13)

He’s gently lead me up wild, joyful slopes and through desperate, dark valleys. He’s comforted me. He’s taken care of me. He’s never once abandoned me, even when I doubted; even when I screamed, threw tantrums, made mistakes and declared I was angry with Him.

For the record, I think God understands our anger. I can’t stay angry with Him for long, however. He’s just too good to me. He is good, all the time.

Life is still — and always will be — hard. There are already major mountains to begin climbing. I don’t know how I’m going to pay rent next month. I don’t know what I am going to do for work. I don’t even know where I’m going to live.

The sand is shifting, once again. But I am not plummeting downhill. I’m not even stuck.

I have a Leader. He rescued me a long time ago. I will trust Him. I will go where He leads. It may not be easy or safe, but He knows every line in the sand. He knows the best and most adventurous route; the one that makes for the wildest — and most fulfilling — ride.

After all, He designed it.