Meanwhile, Alan was growing professionally, constantly making new music, thriving in his songwriting and singing life, striving toward new creative goals. He’d been releasing albums and receiving awards, recognition, and plenty of praise in his music, as well as getting all kinds of personal attention in the celebrity spotlight.
* * *
LIFE REVOLVED AROUND WHAT ALAN DID—NOT BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT HE WANTED, BUT BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT I WANTED.
IF SOMEONE HAD ASKED ME MY FAVORITE FOOD, OR MUSIC, OR MOVIE, I WOULDN’T HAVE KNOWN.
BUT I KNEW ALAN’S.
* * *
If Alan was growing in his work and getting plenty of personal affirmation, I felt like I was shrinking. After all, most of my identity was rooted in pretty superficial things: how I looked and what people thought of me—or what I thought they thought of me. I didn’t have the deep roots of security that come from knowing real significance in a personal relationship with God.
And as I’d drifted from faith over the years, the only anchor in my life was Alan. Tethered to him, I had a sense of who I was. By his side, I was a woman to be envied. Life revolved around what Alan did—not because that’s what he wanted, but because that’s what I wanted. If someone had asked me my favorite food, or music, or movie, I wouldn’t have known. But I knew Alan’s.
Over the years, he had become my foundation. So when he left, there was nothing left for me to depend on. My house had been built on shifting sands, and now in the storms of fear, anger, pain, and confusion, I felt like everything was going to collapse.
Another awful thing about the break in our marriage was that it wasn’t just our private problem. It was public. Tabloids ran all kinds of painful headlines; reporters we’d never met speculated on our most personal thoughts. Ironically, I’d just been featured in a book that profiled “intimate interviews with the wives of today’s hottest country superstars.” I had to catch the publication before it came out and write an addendum to the chapter that profiled our story. There was a new chapter to our chapter, so to speak.
“Until this point in my life,” I wrote, “I have had no major crises of any kind other than the sudden death of my brother Ron. This separation [has been] the most devastating experience I have ever gone through.” I went on to write that I just couldn’t imagine being faced with the possibility of being divorced from the only man I had ever loved—the man I had been with for more than two decades.
Alan was in pain too. His stomach was in a knot, and he lost twenty-five pounds in a few weeks. But he didn’t want to settle anymore for an uneven partnership. I had become so needy and dependent, and he wanted something more. He wanted a woman who would be an equal partner, someone he could respect and admire.
I’m not saying that the break in our marriage was all about my shortfalls. Alan is the first to admit that he made bad choices. He had come to a point in his life, too, where he was realizing that all the material things in the world did not buy happiness. Everyone knows that . . . but it’s another thing altogether to experience it. Alan had realized his greatest goals of music success, stardom, and enormous wealth and fame. But it didn’t fill his heart.
One day he stood in front of our 25,000-square-foot mansion, looking over the perfect house and the perfectly manicured grounds and the perfect garages full of cars and boats and airplanes . . . and he whispered, “I’m still not happy.”
In some ways I became the focal point of Alan’s unhappiness. If all the long-sought pleasures of career success, stardom, and wealth weren’t making him happy, then it must be the deficits in his marriage that were the root cause of his dissatisfaction.
But it’s not up to me to analyze Alan’s mind-set back then— or even now. After all, this is my story, and it was right about this point in it that I was finding a new beginning.
I started taking baby steps toward a new way of thinking that eventually led to a new kind of happiness. I already knew that no amount of material stuff could bring contentment. I’d seen sad people frantically acquiring more and more jewels, houses, clothes, cars, vacation properties, booze, drugs, food . . . and still feeling empty inside. And I was realizing, too, that no human relationship—even if it seems “perfect”—can really satisfy the deepest longings of a person’s soul.
This was radical for me.
After all, I’d been on a lifelong quest to feel good about myself based on who I was with. When I was a young girl, I’d try to get close to a certain uncle whenever he was visiting. He was a war hero who’d received a Congressional Medal of Honor, and when I was sitting next to him at the dinner table, I felt special because he was special. I remembered how I longed for attention from my parents. No matter how much they gave, I always wanted more hugs, more applause, more assurances that I was their most amazing child. When I got a little older, I always had a boyfriend by my side until Alan came into the picture . . . and ever since then, how I felt about myself had depended on how I thought Alan felt about me.
No more. Little, tiny, tender shoots of new growth were peeking out of my soul. The devastation of Alan’s departure was leading to a new beginning, new freedom, and the utter security of a new love I had looked for all my life.
Chapter 14
LETTING GO
O soul, are you weary and troubled?
No light in the darkness you see?
There’s light for a look at the Savior,
And life more abundant and free!
Turn your eyes upon Jesus,
Look full in His wonderful face;
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim
In the light of His glory and grace.
Helen H. Lemmel,
“Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus”
Sometimes on golden fall afternoons I walk down to the huge S oak tree that has guarded the river at the edge of our property for more than five hundred years. It was there before Tennessee became a state, long before the United States of America even existed.
Around the time Christopher Columbus sailed his wooden ships toward the New World, an acorn the size of a thimble sent a tiny green shoot into the soil we now call ours. Rains came and watered the small sprout. Shawnee Indians floated down the river in long canoes. Hunters killed deer near the riverbank and scraped their hides with hard, white flints we sometimes find buried in the soil today.
The sapling grew, sending its roots deeper and deeper into the earth. Its branches became home to birds and squirrels. Its trunk widened over the decades. Centuries passed, and its upper branches reached toward heaven. Wild storms tossed it; the blazing sun scorched it; the raging river flooded it. But still the tree stood firm.
Sometimes when I look up at that massive oak, I can’t help but think of how Jesus talked about trees. He slept under the stars and lived most of His life outside, so it makes sense that He’d tie spiritual truths to nature’s everyday sights.
* * *
MAYBE IT TOOK ALAN’S LEAVING TO REALLY RIVET MY ATTENTION ON THE ONE WHO WOULD NEVER LEAVE ME. I HAD ONLY THE TINIEST MUSTARD SEED OF FAITH . . . BUT IN THE END, GOD USED IT TO BUILD A STABLE HOME FOR ALL OF US.
* * *
“The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed,” Jesus said. “Though it is the smallest of all your seeds, yet when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and perch in its branches.”1
Today, when I stare up at the blue skies above the great tree, I think back to the point in my life when my husband left and the storm winds blew. I wasn’t much of a tree; I was more like a twig. I had just begun to put my roots back down in the faith of my youth. I was just beginning to turn my eyes to Jesus, to consider what was really important in life. I had been distracted for many years by the passing pleasures and pressures of this world, but now I was coming home, so to speak.
Maybe it took Alan’s leaving to really rivet my attention on the One who would never leave me. I had only the tiniest mustard seed of faith . . . but in the end
, God used it to build a stable home for all of us.
Putting My Roots Down Deep
During the early days of our separation, I continued life’s normal routines. Mattie and Ali went to school; baby Dani was a wonderful comfort. But my strongest means of support and growth came from my relationships with the women in my weekly Bible study.
Jane, the friend from the girls’ school who hosted the study, was our organizer. Raised in Memphis, she was (and is) the epitome of Southern graciousness. We jokingly called her “Mother Jane”; she was the mother duck who kept the rest of us in line when we waddled off-topic. We’d meet in Jane’s cozy family room, sitting in a circle, some of us dressed for the day, and some in sweats and no makeup. The casualness and security came from the long-standing bond that we had with each other. We went through a study called Breaking Free, authored by the wonderful Bible teacher Beth Moore.
Each week our group would dig into sections of the Bible that focused on freedom. We’d talk about our struggles and the things that held us to earth and bound us tight. Then we’d sit in that circle, hold hands, and pray.
I hadn’t grown up praying out loud in a setting like this. It felt weird and uncomfortable at first. So did the practice of talking with others about my thoughts and feelings. But I’d always been an eager student, and the academic part of me loved studying the Bible and answering questions in the study guide. I had been spiritually dry for so long that I was dying for truth. I was so thirsty and hungry for God, and I could taste His presence in this little circle of women who loved Him too. So I became more and more free to be the real me—even as I was discovering who the real me really was!
I often broke down in tears during our sharing time. I didn’t dish dirt on Alan or tell the others all the particulars of what I was going through, but in that circle of friends, I felt safe to show my hurting heart and know that all of them would treat it tenderly. They cared for me and encouraged me, and I tried to do the same for them.
But this wasn’t just a support group, wonderful as such groups can be. Most importantly, the women there shared a common commitment to God. They knew He was the only One who could truly help any of us, because only God had the supernatural power to change us. We weren’t just focused on each other; we were all focused on Him, and as we learned more about Him and drew closer to Him, we drew closer to one another as well.
Lifeline
I’d had lots of friends and acquaintances, but I hadn’t had really close girlfriends for many years. I grew to know and love these friends on a deeper level. They weren’t part of the country music world; their husbands were real estate developers, physical therapists, and businessmen. It was casual; no one made anything over me or the situation I was in. But these sisters were rock-solid there for me. They loved me, cried and laughed with me, and pleaded with God to restore my marriage and shower His love on me.
Liz was the youngest in our group, full of life, always with a dramatic tale to tell about her cat, her dogs, or a family member. Her brown eyes sparkled when she shared her stories with us. But Liz had been through deep waters; her husband, a young NASCAR driver, had been killed in a helicopter accident a few years earlier.
In the aftermath of that tragedy, Liz had moved to Nashville with her two young children. As she healed from her horrible loss, and found new strength in her relationship with God, we all prayed that Liz would meet a godly man who would love her children. A few years later, God answered those prayers in the form of a wonderful man who loved God, cherished Liz, and was crazy about Liz’s children. They married and went on to have a child.
Beth was a very petite friend with a big heart and an infectious laugh. We joked about her small size: “How can her organs all fit in that teeny-tiny frame?” She was always doing things for other people, and was and is an extremely loyal friend. Our group has prayed with her through many family illnesses and supported her as she faithfully stood by her best friend, whose lengthy battle with cancer finally took her life.
Joy had such a love for the Lord and a deep knowledge of the Bible. She had a dry, self-deprecating sense of humor that always made us laugh. As we danced on the edge of middle age, she was the first of us to break out the reading glasses, and we all relished giving her a hard time about it. We also prayed in tears with her when her husband died in a private plane accident and stood by her at the funerals of each of her parents. We have watched her faith grow through these difficult times.
Kim was the one we could always count on. She continues to be one of my closest friends today. She would pick up any of our kids if we were running late to get them at school. She was the first person we could call if an emergency came up. Our group encouraged her as her husband went through various career challenges in a demanding business. Her faith has been a shining example for all of us.
The second Beth in our group was bubbly, with a blonde, bobbed haircut. She always had a smile on her face and would tell hilarious stories about living in an all-male house with three rambunctious boys and her husband. It was an unwritten rule that on her birthday and Christmas, we showered her with everything pink. With her husband traveling most of the time with his job, she was a wonderful example of strength as she managed her lively household.
As I spent time with these women, in church and in the Sunday school class, I was also studying the Bible. Much of it was familiar, as it is to those of us who grew up in a Southern Baptist church.As a young girl in Sunday school, I’d memorized all the right verses and excelled at “sword drills”—contests to see who could find particular verses of Scripture in the least amount of time.
But now the Scripture wasn’t just a matter of knowing the right rote answers. It was coming alive for me in a brand-new way. I was beginning to see it as a love story about how God had loved people from the very beginnings of time. He had so loved all of us that He actually made a way for our sins to be washed clean and our souls to be set free, through Jesus. That wasn’t just a one-time understanding at age twelve or whenever one walked the aisle to publicly acknowledge one’s faith. It was a day-to-day, living reality.
I was also beginning to see that this Gospel was all about grace—the undeserved favor we receive from God— not about our performance. It didn’t matter how good I’d been or how lovely I looked: God loved me with a wild, intimate, overwhelming love just because He did . . . not because of anything I did. Even as my heart was like a big bruise inside of me because of Alan’s leaving, I was beginning to hear the chords of a new song, a song I’d never heard before, a sweet whisper that was telling me all would be well.
* * *
EVEN AS MY HEART WAS LIKE A BIG BRUISE INSIDE OF ME BECAUSE OF ALAN’S LEAVING, I WAS BEGINNING TO HEAR THE CHORDS OF A NEW SONG, A SONG I’D NEVER HEARD BEFORE, A SWEET WHISPER THAT WAS TELLING ME ALL WOULD BE WELL.
* * *
Still, though, at that point it was just a whisper.
A Bigger Prayer
One day after Sunday school was over, I sought out the teacher. Robert Wolgemuth was in the publishing industry, a compassionate man with a deep knowledge of the Scriptures and a mellow, soothing voice. His beautiful wife, Bobbie, bubbled with the love of God. We found a quiet corner in the back of the big room, and I told them exactly what my problem was . . . or so I thought.
“I’m Alan Jackson’s wife,” I began. “We’re separated. Could you pray with me that he would come back?”
The Wolgemuths weren’t part of the country music world, and had to ask someone later who Alan Jackson was, but they put their arms around me. Bobbie’s expressive face was full of compassion, and Robert prayed for God’s love to flow over me.
Over the next few weeks, Bobbie would seek me out at Sunday school.
“How are you doing?” she would ask, and I knew she really cared.
“Please keep praying,” I’d say. “Pray that Alan will come back!”
By this point Bobbie felt comfortable enough with me to be very straightforward.
“
Denise,” she said,“we love you and we are so for you. But we need to pray a different prayer. A bigger prayer. We need to pray not that Alan will come back, but that you will be the woman God is calling you to be. Of course we want Alan to come back. But that’s secondary. The first thing right now is that you seek God with all your heart. My prayer will be that God will show you what incredible love He has for you.”
I knew that Bobbie was right, and just about half of me was willing to pray that prayer. The other half of me just wanted Alan back. Period.
But I found out a great thing about God. He doesn’t require that we become completely willing. He doesn’t wait until our faith or our motives are absolutely pure and perfect. If He did, He’d wait forever, and while He has the time to do so, we don’t. He took my small surrenders, my little steps of willingness, and began to do little miracles with them.
It’s like the story of the boy in the New Testament who suffered from epilepsy.2 His father brought him to Jesus. By this point the boy was probably a young man; the father had gone through many long years of heartbreak and frustration.
Convulsing, the boy foamed at the mouth and rolled on the ground, his arms flailing.
“How long has he been like this?” Jesus asked the father.
“From childhood,” said the father. “But if you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.”
“ ‘If you can’?” Jesus repeated. “Everything is possible for him who believes.”
I can’t imagine the horrible pressure the father felt at that point. Was Jesus saying that his son’s healing depended on how much faith he had? There was no way he could rack up enough “belief” to score a healing.His heart constricted, and his years of pain and fear overflowed.
“I do believe!” he shouted to Jesus. “Help me overcome my unbelief!”
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