I was almost too afraid to think it. I was afraid that if I simply thought the word, it would disappear into thin air. Surely I’ve heard him wrong? 

But that’s not right. I know His voice. 

His sheep know his voice. 

Please, say it again, Father? I heard you say it. I know I heard you say it. 

HOME. 

It’s time to go HOME. 

The words beat in my heart like a drum, louder and louder and louder. HOME. 

And He and I both know–there’s only one of those: SCOTLAND.

It’s time to go HOME. 

It was like a heartbeat in my chest started beating again. I felt it in my bones. It was time to go home. Clear as day, a word from the Lord: Rachel, it’s time to go home. 

Our journey towards heaven will see us walking long stretches where tears run down our faces as we walk. Just this month, I had a total teary breakdown (of the “I can’t do this anymore, this life is too hard, I can’t pull myself together to stop crying” variety).

So when we find ourselves in this place where tears are watering the ground beneath our feet, where should we look? 

Rachel, the unloved, hated him. So very, very much. 

Some days, I woke up plotting revenge. Other mornings, I was drowning in rage. The worst days of all were the ones where SELF-PITY poisoned my veins. It was all so ugly. I felt like blood in my veins had turned to venom. 

On the outside, I was getting by, moving on, working things out. But on the inside? My heart was slowly turning to stone. 

I had become a prisoner. 

I was buried in ache and shame and bitterness. Hatred was my garment, and I dressed myself in its filthy garments day after day. 

I WAS A BRIDE.

I wore white. I entered into a sacred covenant. I became part of a new family. I feasted and celebrated a bright future.

I WAS A BRIDE.

I’m no longer her, YET a Bride I still am.

I hated the walk downstairs to my empty bedroom. 

Those were the moments I felt the most alone. The house was dark and creaky in the wind. And my room was empty. I no longer shared my bed. All that waited for me was…nothing. My room felt like a tomb, and I hated being in it. Somehow, I was now the PROTECTOR—the one who would fight off the monsters and bad guys if they showed up. 

And one night, they did. 

Enough.

What a distant word from our generation.

We are a people who are hungry for more. More stuff, more control, more money, more stability, more convenience. 

And yet, Jesus taught us to pray for daily bread. 

Enough. For today only.

It’s wild when you’ve walked through an entire cycle of seasons, and you’re far enough forward that you start to see how all the pieces really did come together. You begin to see the bigger picture taking form and the fruit you longed to see when you were on your knees in the dirt, sowing seeds and watering them with tears. 

Every December, I feel my heart and body brace themselves for another blow. As twinkly lights sparkle in windows and the collective mood gets merrier, a sense of dread typically settles over my heart. I struggle to pull the Christmas decorations out of storage with my girls, and tears often fall. 

You see, the Christmas season dredges up a lot of grief in my heart. 

We are a community of treasure seekers.

We have sifted through the ashes of shattered marriages and broken dreams to find beauty. 

And oh, how we’ve found it, haven’t we?

I felt so weak. So pathetic. So useless. I had nothing in my hands. How would I manage all of this by myself? How would I take care of kids? Our new rented home? Myself? I was so unkind with my words and attitude towards myself. I remember calling myself stupid, foolish, spoiled, a burden, a waste of space, useless. 

All those feelings and labels that were born inside my marriage were still there, ready to smother me again.

My prayers were pretty short and desperate during those days. Lord, the girls need new shoes–please help. Lord, rent is due on Tuesday–please help. Lord, the girls asked to get pizza tonight because they are tired of PB&J sandwiches–please help. 

Please help. 

Unfulfilled desires. We all have them. Your’s might look different than mine, but I have no doubt you share a similar heartsickness over the no’s you’ve received. Living in this world means living with desires that might be delayed or even left unmet. We were not made for this place. God has set eternity in our hearts and this world will just never live up (Ecclesiastes 3:11). 

So what do we do with these longings that ache within us? Where do we place the desires that will not let go of our hearts? 

It’s a question I’ve really struggled with…

Sunday, December 1st, will mark the 8th anniversary of my marriage shattering. I have a tradition of setting my alarm for December 1st with the label: YOU SURVIVED. And it’s true. We have.

I closed the door and he walked down the sidewalk. His car started and I heard it back out of the driveway. I slowly turned around to face my babies, crumpled on the brand-new sofa. He had stopped by to share the news with them. The big news.

The “D” word news: DIVORCE.

A word that felt like poison. Poured out on us; stinging and ripping our hearts to shreds.

I climbed between them and we cried. We cried and cried and cried. We cried until the tears ran out. I was so afraid. How, Lord? How will I carry their oceans of grief when I’m drowning in the sea myself? 

If you told 5-year-old me about all the loss she would face, would she still grow up with stars in her eyes & hope in her heart?

Every December, I feel my heart and body brace themselves for another blow. As twinkly lights sparkle in windows and the collective mood gets merrier, a sense of dread typically settles over my heart. I struggle to pull the Christmas decorations out of storage with my girls, and tears often fall.

READ THE FULL ARTICLE OVER AT RISEN MOTHERHOOD

2,555 DAYS.

Seven whole years.

Seven years since the worst day of my life.

Friday, December 1st, will mark the 7th anniversary of my marriage shattering. I have a tradition of setting my alarm for December 1st with the label: YOU SURVIVED. And it’s true. We have.

How do you mark such a day?

We both agreed—we were ready to move out of our season of separation and work towards coming back together again. As husband and wife. As a family of four.

It was time to rebuild. And I was in. All in.

The wrong man gave me flowers.

But those flowers brought healing and ushered in a new chapter.

Tears burned my eyes. I was angry and desperately sad. How does a father abandon his family? It feels like the very worst of crimes. My mind raced as jumbled prayers spilled from my mouth. “Lord, will my daughters survive this breaking of our home? How will they come to understand that you are so very different? Can they separate in their hearts a father who leaves and a Father who stays?”  ** READ THE FULL ARTICLE ON RISEN MOTHERHOOD…