An unexpected twist to the story came several years later, when we were both in college and home on Christmas break. Felicia and I went to dinner together, and it turned out she’d become a Christian. She told me, “Christi, I don’t know how you put up with me in high school. I was really horrible to you. But the way you forgave me was such an example to me. It really affected me.”
In that moment I learned another important lesson about forgiveness: even if we don’t see the results immediately, we can never underestimate its power—both in our own lives and in the lives of the people we forgive.
But I wasn’t in high school anymore, and this wasn’t just a classmate. This was my husband. The battle felt much more brutal. More consequential.
And let’s face it: it was.
I wasn’t in a safe place with Justin, and I didn’t believe I ever could be. A big part of me was angry about that. I’d trusted him more times than I could count, and almost every time I gave him an inch, he took a mile and then tried to cover his tracks. I felt used and bitter and beaten. And I didn’t want that anymore.
There was one thing that made my choice to forgive him easier, however: I understood that when you forgive someone, it doesn’t mean you’re condoning what that person did to you. You’re not saying, “It’s okay that you hurt me.” It doesn’t mean you dismiss the person’s behavior or ignore the consequences you’re left to deal with. And it doesn’t mean you absolve the person of his or her own responsibility to get it together. That’s their journey, not yours.
It means you’re finished holding on to your own anger and resentment, because at that point you’re just punishing yourself. We have to learn to value ourselves enough to say to the one who hurt us, “What you think of me doesn’t define me. What you do to me won’t destroy me. I’m choosing to let this go so I can be free of all that toxicity.” If we don’t do that, we give our transgressor far too much power over our lives—even if that person is no longer around.
You can’t get past a hurt until you’re willing to say, “I forgive you because I know you’re human, just like me.” We need to recognize the humanness in others while still recognizing what’s good for us and what’s not. Our healing is directly intertwined with our capacity to forgive. It’s a choice.
I knew I had to forgive Justin completely, because if I didn’t release the anger, I would just be torturing myself. I’d already given four years of my life to this tumult. I wasn’t giving it one more day, if I could help it.
We had both been hurt in this relationship. We were both furious, though for different reasons. But anger is anger. It’s venomous. Healing would only come when we acknowledged that we were both guilty but also both capable of receiving forgiveness.
The other caveat about forgiveness was that it didn’t mean I had to let Justin back in. This realization was huge for me because I’d always imagined that forgiveness resulted in a big hug fest. “Oh, I’m sorry!” “I’m sorry too!” Hug, hug, kiss, kiss. No—forgiving doesn’t equate to naive vulnerability. It doesn’t mean you have to invite the person who hurt you back to a place where he could hurt you again. It doesn’t mean you have to keep him in your circle of friends. You can forgive someone and still cut that person out of your life. Just because you forgive the one who hurt you, it doesn’t make that person suddenly safe for you.
That realization was a watershed moment for me. It meant I no longer had to sit there and take it when Justin lashed out at me. I could say, “I forgive you. I wish you the best. Now go on your way—we don’t have anything left to discuss here.”
Some people view forgiving others as a weakness. They think it makes you vulnerable, even ignorant. But it’s really one of the bravest choices you can ever make.
I also had to recognize how my own pride was an obstacle too. I could forgive Justin all I wanted, but that didn’t guarantee he’d accept it. It didn’t mean he’d even acknowledge my forgiveness.
I had to choose to forgive him anyway.
He might never feel remorse for what happened. He might never take responsibility for his part in it. He might never appreciate my efforts or accept my forgiveness. And my happiness couldn’t be connected to whether he did. I wasn’t responsible for how he responded. I was only responsible for what I could control—my own choices.
Sometimes we think we won’t be able to fully heal until we hear someone own his or her part in what happened, until we hear the words “I’m sorry.”
But waiting for such a moment we can’t control is just setting ourselves up for another disappointment. It’s giving that person far more power over us than he or she deserves.
Forgiving Justin didn’t mean I had to stick around to see whether he’d find forgiveness himself. Again, that was his journey. Not mine.
We’re not responsible for how someone responds to our forgiveness. We’re only responsible for what we can control—ourselves.
Once I recognized this, I noticed how my bitterness slipped away.
I wasn’t resentful.
I just needed to get out.
Chapter 10
Pain Is Temporary; How Temporary Is Up to You
The next day I drove to visit one of my friends who lived about half an hour away from my parents. On the ride home, I was feeling lighter than ever. My windows were down, and I was simply enjoying the brisk autumn air as it blew my hair all over the place.
My peace was interrupted by the ringing of my cell phone.
“I’ve thought about it, and I’m not leaving this apartment,” Justin said. “If you want out, you can find a new place.”
“Okay. If that’s what you want, that’s what I’ll do. I will need to stop and get the car, though.”
We agreed that he’d be gone when that happened. He was pretty reasonable during that conversation, and I was immediately grateful for Jeff. I sensed it was his stability that was helping Justin. It was odd, however, to hang up the phone and not say, “I love you,” as we almost always had—up until last night.
As I drove to my parents’ house, I made a mental list of what I needed to do. I knew there were precautions I should take to protect myself financially. Justin’s calmness during our conversation, though refreshing, was also peculiar. It made me wonder if he was up to something.
When I got to my parents’ house, I sat down and checked items off the monetary laundry list. First, I called our credit card company and asked them to take me off the account. I let them know I was responsible for the current charges on our joint card, but after this date, I’d no longer be bound to future purchases. Check one.
Next, I called our bank and opened my own checking account. Check two.
Then I called our real estate agent, the one we’d worked with in the past to look for a house. This was going to be interesting.
“I’m looking for a rental,” I told her.
That threw her for a loop. “What do you mean? I thought you and Justin were looking to purchase a home.”
“Well, the rental is just for me.”
After I briefly explained my new situation, she was quiet for a second, then said, “I can’t say I’m surprised, Christi. I could tell that something just didn’t feel right. Don’t take this the wrong way, because I think the world of you both, but I just never really understood your pairing.”
Yet again, someone else was on to us before I even admitted it to myself! I told her what kind of place I was looking for and the area I preferred. We hung up with an appointment for the next week to check some things out. Check three.
Then came the call that stirred up mixed feelings in me. On the one hand, it made me shudder to think about having this conversation. But on the other hand, I wanted to hear her voice. I forced myself to exhale as the phone rang.
“Hello?” It was Justin’s mother, Anna.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, Christi.”
“Have you talked to Justin?”
“Yes. He told us everything.”
“I’m s
o sorry,” I said.
And that’s when it happened. My eyes started stinging, my throat closed up, and the tears began streaming down my face.
“I know I’m the bad guy,” I said. “But I can’t deal with the anger and the outbursts. I just can’t do it anymore.”
“Well, it’s going to take us a while to understand all of this,” she said.
I told her I loved them all very much.
“We love you, too. That’s why this is so hard.”
“I’m so sorry.” My voice was trembling.
“I’m sorry too.”
There was an awkward silence as neither of us knew what to say next.
We agreed we’d talk later and said good-bye.
I hung up, took a deep breath, and there it came, the sobs racking my body. I had hurt her. I had hurt Justin’s whole family.
Through the turbulence of the last four years, Anna had given me strength. She had stood up for me. I knew she wasn’t blind to what had been happening. But now . . . I could hear the strain in her voice, and it hurt me to know I’d caused her pain. It hit me that I wasn’t just saying good-bye to Justin; I was losing his family, too.
I recalled something Dr. Anderson had said to me during one of our sessions. “The breakup of a relationship is like an amputation,” he said. “A part of your life has been cut off. A part of you is gone, and sooner or later you’ll feel it. And often it’ll be when you least expect it. It’s something that might just hit you out of nowhere.”
I hadn’t felt that loss, that amputation, until now.
As the day wore on, I recognized that this was where my faith intersected with my support system: they both helped hold me up. My aunts and a few friends called, giving me their reassurance that they were behind me and that they loved me. My mother had alerted her prayer warriors that I was in need. Then there were the people who “just happened” to call at the very moment I needed a kind word or a little boost. I’m convinced those weren’t coincidences—they were glimpses of God in action.
And when I called Carey to let her know I needed that extra room in her apartment, she said, “It’s ready and waiting for you!”
It had never dawned on me as I was feeling so alone, making this torturous decision to leave Justin, that I would find this kind of support on the other side. When you’re facing an end point like that, failure is what dominates your vision. If bliss is the cover photo on a wedding album, then defeat is the featured photo on the album of divorce.
But I was beginning to see things through a different lens. That snapshot of failure was transforming into an image of hope, and I was seeing the truth—that hope does not disappoint.
If I was going to truly embrace that hope, I had to be honest with myself about what was happening.
One, I was not going to play the victim here.
Okay. So I’d suffered. Who hasn’t? Who hasn’t been hurt or betrayed or even devastated at some point in his or her life? I was brought to my knees by my pain, yes, but it hadn’t killed me. And I knew the abuse I experienced was minute compared to what some people go through.
I refused to fall into the trap of feeling sorry for myself because if I did that—if I played the victim—I was only letting self-doubt have the last word.
I knew I had to take responsibility, to own my part. I cut Justin off emotionally. I allowed myself to shut down. I stopped seeing my marriage as forever. I was resentful at times. I’m sure my sadness was palpable—even to Justin. I was far from a perfect wife, but I knew if I stayed I might well become a Stepford one. A plastic, apathetic shell walking around like a mechanized doll. That was no way to live.
As I’d learned the hard way, pain is not the worst thing that can happen to us. I’d rather feel pain than feel nothing at all. Faith tells us that at some point the pain will subside and make way for something better. Something beautiful. The more we keep the faith, the more we’ll recognize that God is working for us—and we’ll understand what He wants us to do. We can take to heart that famous promise about hope:
Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.
HEBREWS 11:1
If we concentrate on the pain, it’s awfully hard to see the hope. Pain is temporary. How temporary is up to us.
We can’t immerse ourselves in our pain and simultaneously stand in power. It just isn’t possible to do both. Yes, we can feel the pain. We can remember the anguish. It’s not going away overnight. But wallowing in it doesn’t bring us back to dignity or integrity.
I refused to be a victim. I was a woman who had made a choice that brought me to a place that hurt. We all do that. What’s important is that when we do, we work to correct it.
Two, I realized I wasn’t alone. I had been so caught up in what this would do to me, to Justin, and to our families that I didn’t recognize the reinforcements that had been there for me along the way. My best friends, Nanette and Jen. My parents. My grandmas.
We’re never left helpless—even if that’s how we feel.
Of course, no one can predict how others will react to the news that you’re leaving your husband. Thinking about the conversations people will have is enough to make even the most confident person feel self-conscious and insecure. But you’re not the first person to ever walk this battle line. All of us have struggles we’re trying to conquer. We need to remember that at the end of the day, God is always there for us, and He always provides someone else who cares about us too. That’s one of His greatest gifts in moments like these—the reminder that we’re not alone. It’s hard to see it when the isolation and loneliness feel so encompassing. But that’s all the more reason to keep our eyes open for those reminders.
We all have pasts. We all have stories. We all have skeletons. And we all have opportunities to make a fresh start. The thing about tragedy is that it reveals who is faithfully there for us and who isn’t. And as much as it might hurt to realize someone we thought we could count on might not have our best interests at heart, it is cleansing. It releases us from the people who aren’t strong enough to stand up for us, who aren’t loyal enough to stick with us, who aren’t confident enough to celebrate with us.
The superficiality drains away, and that torturous road we’re walking makes us even more grateful for the people who do stay by our side, even through the uncertainty of where we’re going.
On the wall of my old room at home, a few pictures from high school still hung on a corkboard. Brenda and me at a football game. Jen and me at her house. I thought of something another friend often told me: “I’m so impressed with the effort and time you put into your friendships, Christi.”
It struck me as funny because I don’t see it that way. I’ve just learned to love the people I can count on. The people I can be real with—and who know they can be real with me. It’s really not that complicated. When you’ve been betrayed or deeply hurt by someone, you learn how to spot those people who aren’t worthy of your trust. But you also become aware of the people you should be grateful for.
There I was, severing a sacred connection with my husband, and despite the brokenness, I was also feeling incredibly blessed. Blessed because I was not alone. It was in that challenging season that I realized how enveloped I was by my loyal, trustworthy, forever army of companions.
One thing they couldn’t do for me, though, was the work I needed to do on myself. The big questions I needed to answer now were, Why did I stay? Why did it take me so long to see the truth? I knew these answers would take some introspection, and that was going to mean work. But it was critical if I was going to find healing and avoid this route in the future.
As I looked around my bedroom, where so many stories of my teenage years were archived, a whole new tale was taking shape now, fourteen years later. From sixteen-year-old heartbreaks to the heartache of divorce—no matter how old we get, our hearts are still vulnerable and our life lessons are still calling for us to get real and pay attention.
I knew one of the r
easons I hadn’t left before was because marriage was sacred to me. But here’s what knocked me on my heinie when I looked the situation square in the eye: I was never really willing to go. Sure, I’d prayed and asked God what to do. But until I was truly open to His guidance, I hadn’t been able to hear an authentic answer. Just like a teenager who asks for advice then bolts out the door and does her own thing anyway, I’d posed the question to God—but only rhetorically. Until I was open to hearing whatever He said—even if it was excruciating—I wasn’t going to make any real progress. Real being the key word here.
Now I yearned for that genuine experience of just being me. I wanted people around me who were real, with no pretension. No charades. No masks or false pretexts. I wanted to live the truth, even if that truth was painful, because at least it was real.
I’d lived for four years trying to make the lies of my marriage true. But it’s impossible to transform fallacies into reality; we only wind up distorting the truth in an attempt to make it less painful. It might work—for a minute. But the longer we run from the truth, the more miserable we’re going to be. When we don’t face the pain, we aren’t escaping it. We’re only prolonging it.
I was done running. I had no idea what my truth was going to look like from this point on, but I was finally ready to embrace it. Part of that road toward truth was learning to see myself differently.
It would take time. It would take work. It would take faith. But I was willing to give it a try. I was willing to hear whatever guidance God had for me. And this time I was ready to follow through with it.
Chapter 11
In the Silence, Find Your Strength
It was nine o’clock in the evening by the time my plane landed in Phoenix. The moment I inhaled the desert air, my anxiety started to intensify. I grabbed a taxi and fretted the whole way to our apartment. Would Justin hold up his end of the deal and be gone when I arrived to get my car keys? I walked up the steps and saw that one of the lights in the apartment was on. My heart started beating wildly. What was I walking into?
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