No Pretty Bow

Toward the end of my dying marriage, I was paying the concealer tax just to survive the day. Every morning, I spent twenty minutes layering three different brands under my eyes to hide the dark circles of a sleepless marriage. I wasn’t just hiding grief; I was protecting myself. I was protecting a brand. I was the Pastor’s Wife, the Teacher of the Year (not really, but I aspired to be) and I was terrified that if the pews saw my exhaustion, the whole “House on Sand” would finally give way.

Everything collapsed when my husband confessed his affair. The details when they came to light were so horrible, I can still remember the tang of bile in my mouth. It was the taste of a life unhinged, my stomach revolting even before my mind had fully processed the trauma of betrayal.

When The Pretty Package Goes Up in Flames

“Why?” It was the first question I posed when my marriage and all the packaging that came with it burst into flames right in front of my eyes. How could the God who loved me allow the foundation of my life to crumble?

There are so many things I know now that I didn’t know then. At that time in my life, I couldn’t have grasped the idea that my life might one day feel better, even single and unmarried. For the woman I was ten years ago, it seemed a fate worse than death. Yet now I look at that woman differently. She wanted to be happy, but her whole life was built around pleasing others—creating an image of herself that felt admirable and “ministry-ready“ rather than cultivating honesty and peace before God.