It was a humid afternoon in early August, the glare of the sunshine hit me through the window of our counsellor’s office. My world as I once knew it was crumbling around me. Words like “addiction,” “abuse” and “trauma” hung in the air waiting for my response. I never imagined that four years of marriage would lead me to this point.
My husband had begun individual therapy nearly four months prior, and at the request of his counsellor, he invited me into this session to disclose his past, a past filled with shame, pain, and heartache. The image of the man I thought I knew so well, the father of my children, was shattered. And it was painful, so very painful.
I remember leaving that afternoon in shock. So much had just been dumped on me and I didn’t remotely know how to begin to process it all, let alone move forward toward healing.
The following days and weeks were a blur. I remember feeling too weary, too overwhelmed to enter into daily life at all. Normal, everyday tasks felt much too heavy for the likes of my fragile heart. I felt like I had been run over by a truck, and the love of my life was the one driving it.
No amount of determination could stop my mind from replaying the events revealed to me during that session. The nagging little voices of inadequacy were growing. I felt betrayed, used and worthless. Every painful insecurity I ever had, came bubbling to the surface. Insecurities I had spent years burying deep down in the pits of my heart were suddenly flooding over and all at once. I cried and cried and cried.
I tried my best to hold it together in front of my girls, but inside I was a shell, devastated and struggling with all I could just to make it through the next hour before me.
It goes without stating that my husband and I were in a delicate space, but by God’s grace and sheer willpower we continued to seek counselling, beginning the long, slow journey toward forgiveness and healing.
Then nearly a month to the day of that fateful counselling appointment, I miscarried our third child. I was twelve weeks along with her when my darling, Francine passed.
I can handle a lot of things, but this felt altogether too much. I experienced all the emotions associated with grief from disbelief, to sorrow, to anger. And God—where in the heck was God in all of this?
As a Catholic woman, I know that in all circumstances He is present, He is good and He is worthy of our praise. But even though my mind knows that, my heart certainly didn’t feel it.
I felt lost, abandoned, broken and aimless. Everything that I held dear to me was coming undone at the seams. I spent countless hours weeping in prayer desperately begging God to take away the pain of my hollow heart.
But He didn’t take away the pain. No, not even a bit of it. Instead, He let me feel. He let me cry. He let me ignore Him.
He allowed space for my anger. He let me yell. He let me beat up on Him, and then after all that was done, He walked me through it.
He knew I was fragile and cared for me accordingly through the prayers and guidance from my pastor, to the wise women who covered me in support. And most importantly, He spoke kindly to me through Scripture only the way a good father could.
2 Timothy 2 states, “my child, be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus… Bear your share of hardship along with me like a good soldier of Christ Jesus.”
Suffering of any kind is just that… suffering. It isn’t glamorous and it's far from effortless, but it is an inescapable part of the human experience.
So the question arises, are we going to do all that we can to avoid it or is there another way?
Christ came to save us from pain and suffering and death. If He wanted to He could remove all suffering from the world. Our God IS that powerful. But for reasons that often surpass my understanding, He didn’t choose to do that. Rather, He chose to use suffering as a way to sanctify us, but only if we cooperate. We can choose to suffer well, allowing Christ in His infinite and loving power to transform us through it, drawing us closer to Him.
He can bring us to the other side, turning what is broken and destructive on its head, making us whole, making us new. Even so, growth in virtues like faith, hope, courage and wisdom don’t happen overnight. They are hard-earned points of character born through trial and heartache and suffering.
But be assured friends, the Lord wants to make you new. That’s what He did for me, and I am certain that is what He desires to do for you too.
I’m so grateful to say that my husband and I came out of those trials that nearly broke us four years ago, stronger, happier, more united than ever before. I know it’s such a cliche, but without that deeply painful time, we wouldn’t be where we are today. We wouldn’t have been able to come to a greater level of trust, dependence or vulnerability without it.
As for the loss of Francine, there will forever remain a tender spot in my heart for her and who she could have been. Our children know that they have a sweet little sibling up in heaven interceding for them and longing to reunite when Our Father calls us home. Even still, the Lord is good and His mercies are inexhaustible. We have since added two more beautiful children to our family. Oddly enough, our first son, Augustine would not have been born had we not lost Francine… but that’s a whole other beautiful story for another time.
Rebuilding your marriage is hard. Losing a child is hard. Financial pressure is hard. Waiting on your vocation is hard. Our suffering can sometimes feel like the end of us, but no matter what circumstances or mountains you may be facing one thing is certain, He will carry you through.
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