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"Wendy Redroad is our go-to girl on the topic of forgiveness. She shares a powerful journey intertwining healing and forgiveness for women who've suffered all manner of abuse. She is relatable, compassionate, and biblically sound in her approach as she takes women by the hand and gently walks them through their own journey to healing and freedom."

--Carrie Gurley [Executive Director] Valiant Hearts

 

 

 

 

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Tuesday, September 16, 2014 8:26 PM

Margaritas and Martyrdom

Tuesday, September 16, 2014 8:26 PM
Tuesday, September 16, 2014 8:26 PM

So I'm going through my files and I stumble across something I wrote in April, 2013. I was "doin' time" in the guest room while my husband--determined to leave the marriage, refused to leave our room as he awaited move-out-date. Go figure.

If I ever make time to schedule an appointment with an Apple guy in an Apple store to learn how to navigate my Mac, perhaps I'll add a pic of the bedroom door I regretfully kicked when he locked me out. 

I'm tempted to say I simply procrastinate, but the real reason I neglect training is because the Apple Store smells like a hundred sweaty guys who are too busy being techie to read the memo that deodorant was invented. 

Seriously. The things is, every time I pass by the Apple store I think to myself: Girl! You lived on a farm when you were 13. You now the drill. Take the deepest breath possible and then your nose will tell your brain you lived there your whole life. 

Enough rambling. Back to blog. I share this low point in my life because I'm human. And because looking back, messy and painful as it all was, I'm on the mend and so very grateful God faithfully responds to the cries of a broken heart.

In the words of a broken heart:

It's the fourth consecutive Wednesday I stop for a margarita after work. My usual destination after work is home. My usual routine: call the hubs to let him know I'm on my way.

"Hey, Honey. I just left the office. Did Zach go to youth group? Do I need to pick up a chicken?"

But my husband isn't waiting for a call or a chicken.

I didn't see it coming. Oh sure, there were cautionary signs along the way. Like a good bible study girl, I prayed harder. I "spoke life over my husband"--an infamous catch phrase directed at Southern Christian women.

For years, in the name of Jesus, I took responsibility in the areas he lacked. Eighteen years later, I don't like how it's working for me. I don't like soaking in the realness that my husband is suddenly too "rock-n-roll" to be married.

"I don't want to be married to you anymore. I want a divorce as soon as possible," he'd said.

Later, he chalked it up to anger. But I know in my heart it's the first thing he's said in a long time that actually feels true, which subsequently, births an unfortunate phase where I prefer swear words over ten-week Bible studies. (My apologies to Life Way Christian bookstores.)

So here I sit with my Margarita in dazed reflection:

I'd managed to convince myself that my awesome, Bile-belt-til-death-do-us-part love would somehow make up for the fact that I married a man who was not emotionally invested. But whose addictions provided a willingness to, as noted Donald Winnicott would say, "over develop a false self." A false self who after every relapse, every immoral slip, embraced my Christian values just long enough to hoist him out of the ditch. A false self, who wanted to share his life with, say, someone like me.

Maybe it's the tequila, but all I can see is the long line of the failed efforts I've made over the years, hangin' like abandoned laundry. Just a year ago I believed we were happy. He said he was happy.

I don't want to be with you anymore.

In a single sentence, I'm removed from the esteemed position of wife and tossed into a box of items to be dropped off at the nearest Goodwill. And I find myself jealous of the half-burned candle sticks that hold the monetary value of twenty-five cents in a yard sell, where at least someone took the time to consider their worth.

The sound of my cell ringing breaks the emotional fall.

"Hello."

"Hey, it's Carrie. What are you doing?'

"Um. Drinkin', What are you doing?"

"Leaving WAC. (ministry for women.)

"Where are you? How about I come get you?"

"Taco Casa, across from the Barnes and Noble."

"There isn't a Taco Casa across from the Barnes and Noble."

"Sure there is! No worries. I'll just hang out at the bookstore til' the alcohol wears off."

"Wendy, do me a favor. Walk outside and tell me what the sign over the restaurant says."

"K . . . Oh, Taco DI-NER."

"I'll be there in fifteen. STAY PUT."

I stay put. 

Carrie arrives in fifteen.

And then we sit in her car for THREE hours as I cry like a disgraced TV evangelist. And swear. And cry. And so on. It wasn't my finest moment, but it was arguably one of hers. 

Should I have been drinking given my circumstances? Nope. 

Swearing? I like to think so, but the good Christian girl answer is, no, definitely not.

The funny thing about that night is looking back, I smile and think to myself: What a friend I have in Jesus.

"In my distress I called upon the Lord, and cried out to my God; He heard my voice from His temple, and my cry came before Him, even to His ears" (Psalm 18:6 NKJV).

What is God saying to you through this crazy-honest story? 

You are not alone, 

Wendy

 

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