And now these three remain: faith, hope and love

I lost everything material when I left my husband: the house, the car, the neighbourhood, the friends, the church. The child. I still don’t understand how I lost my child.

But I left in faith. I gained hope in the leaving. And my love stayed a part of me.

The beginning of the end came a year beforehand, on our silver wedding, which my husband spent away on a work trip.

The following month, I paid off the mortgage – lifting that final financial barrier which had constrained my choices.

The crushing of my spirit had been a gradual process. It started at a wedding, which he left during the church service, because he didn’t like my dress.

It continued when our child was born. My husband was jealous of the great love he saw between me and this tiny, dependent human. But love isn’t like maths. Sharing doesn’t diminish it: it makes it grow more. My husband was never good at sharing.

Our marriage hung by a thread for many years. I didn’t dare enrol for the Marriage Course, aware that inviting even internal scrutiny to our dysfunction would hasten the inevitable conclusion.

The big violations (that nobody knew about) and the microaggressions (that nobody challenged) killed me on the inside.

Each Christmas, I wondered about murdering him, killing myself or having a nervous breakdown. Why couldn’t I just get divorced like a normal person?

The reason is that I am Christian. And Christians don’t leave their spouses.

It is good to take marriage seriously…but abuse of power within a relationship is not honouring to God.

I got brave in that final year. I admitted to a friend that I felt irrelevant within my family.

I saw a counsellor. She reflected that my marriage was like an old worn-out comfort blanket with lots of holes. She explained the difference between selfishness and self-care. She suggested changing my own reactions to abuses. She said that my worries about what our child would think of me if I left might be unfounded.

I started calling out the controlling behaviour: his priority on the bathroom, the car and the television, the binning of my possessions. He didn’t accept that his behaviour was controlling. So I didn’t know how to address it.

I lost hope for the future. I wrote him a letter.

We went out for brunch. I bought silk underwear.

I counted the cost. I weight the risks. I waited.

I sensed the guidance of God, through the ordinary things of life, to a new place. I needed to leave to live. I left in faith.

It was my faith that upheld me in the leaving, not condemning me!

My material possessions being withheld/destroyed only served to demonstrate the importance of the eternal. My faith, my hope and my love could not be taken.

I held on to my integrity in the face of dishonesty; my kindness despite cruelty; my trust despite sabotage; my joy despite endless rage.

I made my own choices. It felt nice.

Others made their own choices too: my child chose not to speak to me.

Friends say that he will have a different perspective when he is older; when he is away from his Dad; when he understands about imbalance of power in relationships. Four years later, I still hope so.

But my hope in the material event of reconciliation has lessened in the face of the reality that my child still chooses not to know me.

The wound of rejection that was all-encompassing is now looking healthier around the edges. It doesn’t cripple me. I function. I enjoy life.

Because I have faith, I have hope for the future that isn’t dependent on whether my child loves me back.

These three remain: faith, hope and love.