Recently I learned that a couple I admire have separated. What's sad about that statement—besides the fact that it's true—is that every one of you reading this can probably say the same thing. We are quite surrounded.
I've heard of more marriage trouble lately (and in my life) than I care to recount, and I consider myself to still be on my first lap around the block. A multitude of marriages are quivering, crumbling and ultimately dissolving right before my eyes.
Usually when I hear about marriage trouble that has ended in separation or divorce, I stop to consider how shocked I am (for I am inevitably shocked) and how sad the situation is (it is universally sad), and then I pray for restoration (it's never impossible). But the most recent account to reach my notice made me do something else. It made me fear.
I can't think of another instance of marriage difficulty that has struck fear in my heart. I don't know if I identified it right away but it certainly didn't take me long to realize what the marriage trouble of this couple means: it means no one is safe. I look around me and can't help but come to the conclusion that years invested don't matter, shared children don't matter, faith doesn't matter. It seems marriage problems are respecters of nothing.
This lead me to the blaring-in-my-face-obvious reality that if the mighty can fall, if the godly can topple, what hope can I have? When these decide it's impossible to go on, what can the rest of us do? For I know I am still early in this journey with Jesus. I have much to learn, much to ruin in the process and much to see redeemed in the end.
Let me say this: I don't know anyone's whole story and I won't presume I do. Who knows how long and hard the years have been and how much hurt has been endured? Not me. Maybe enduring has gotten to be more than can be endured. Maybe for some, out is the only way they can see. I can't say. I'm not there, and I can't say.
What I can say is that I have heeded the warning. I have surveyed the battlefield and beheld the bloodied landscape and run from the horror of it. It is too much. When I enlisted it was with the understanding that all who enlist must fight to the death, no turning back. But it was also with the understanding that "fighting to the death" wouldn't be required. Christ would fight with and for me. He'd wed the church long ago and had promised not to leave her, so the battle was won. He meant it, I think. And the fact that he meant it meant that I should never have to look on the dead and wounded, that there wouldn't be any dead and wounded. Right?
Wrong. So, so wrong.
Not only are there thousands of them littering the battlefield on every front, there is apparently no reason to think that I won't join them. I check myself and gasp to see that I have entered the ranks in nothing but my skin. I'm a sitting duck. I'm begging to be shot down. I look across the field and am alarmed to see that the casualties are all in nothing but their skin. No armor. They entered the fight just like I did, with nothing but faith that I'd make it out alive and more than alive.
Here's the point, and I am broken to have reached it: I can't hope to survive. I believed that as long as I had Jesus and his words right in front of me, I'd have a shot. Pretty good one, actually. But how many of those lying before me thought the same thing and yet...there they are? And I know I'm so far from being holy enough to escape joining them. I'm nervous and shaken and scared and disappointed and sobered. Please Lord, please no.
I want to beg those who have fallen to tell me how to avoid their fate; that sounds insensitive, and I really don't mean for it to, but I'm frantic to know! What happened that made these couples question their commitment? What happened that made them doubt it was worth with it? What happened that was too much, too hurtful? Because right now, I can't imagine my and Todd's not-seeing-eye-to-eyes morphing into packing-my-bags and see-you-in-courts. There must be lots between here and there and I want to know what to look out for so I can turn around and tear back up the road when I see it coming.
There's another thing I want these injured souls to tell me: what would have been enough? If time together and love shared and faith weren't enough, what would have been? Those with years and years of marriage practice can come unravelled; those who love deeply at one time can stab deeply at others; those who claim the Faith can forget. And here I am, wide-eyed and watching. Who did I think I was to embark on something so futile? If others couldn't and can't swing it, why should I think I can, wretch that I am?
I don't know the answers. I can ask and ask and then tomorrow or maybe the next day I'll hear of another failed attempt and no one will have any answers and I'll need them even more.
This month I celebrated four years of being married to my favorite person. It's not much, I know. But I'm not celebrating the fact that we made it another year; I'm celebrating the fact that we're doing this life together. And I'm glad. I want this. I think I'll always want this, but how many other couples have said the same thing and in the end walked away, brokenhearted?
Until I hear of anything better to do, I suppose I'll just sit quaking in fear before almighty God and beg him to spare us the end that has met so many. I'll pray for all the protection and wisdom and patience and faithfulness he's willing to part with. I'll quit pretending I'm immune and start believing that I'm every bit as likely to fall.
And I'll beg him not to let me.
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