But to the wicked, God says: “What right do you have to recite my laws or take my covenant on your lips? You hate my instruction and cast my words behind you. When you see a thief, you join him; you throw in your lot with adulterers. You use your mouth for evil and harness your tongue for deceit. You speak continually against your brother and slander your own mother’s son. These things you have done, and I have kept silent; you thought I was altogether like you. But I will rebuke you and accuse you to your face.” Psalm 50:16-21
The sun came up. It was Father’s Day. Sally had the boys, and we met at church early. There were cards. We had breakfast together. My frame of mind was even worse than you might expect it to be since it was the eve of the day of the new plan.
It happened during the service—during the pastor’s Father’s Day message. I came to myself. Like the prodigal son waking up in the pig pen, long out of touch with reality, I came to myself and took the step back from the brink. No matter how bad the repercussions of divorce were, no matter the loss of image and what others would think, I knew I’d never be able to live with myself or ever look my children in the face again if I were the cause of their mother’s death—if I were the one responsible for taking their mother away from them. My children needed her. God had a purpose for her. Who did I think I was to selfishly short-circuit that? So I called it off! Just in the knick of time, or so I thought.
After the service, in the men’s room, Wesley said he needed me to come outside and identify Sally’s vehicle “so there won’t be any confusion”. I declined. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore – it’s over.”
The family was to eat together at the house. On the way Wesley called. I didn’t answer. As I approached the house I called him back. Voice mail: “Don’t call me again. This is over.”
Over dinner the five of us discussed the following evening’s events. We all agreed that Jon would miss his game, and we would all ride together. Sally’s vehicle would remain in the garage.
It was over. I was horrified at what I had almost done; at what I had tried to do; and I was so relieved at the same time. I could breathe again. I could think again for the first time in weeks.
But it was too late. As I said before, nothing I did, or didn’t do, mattered. I was done!
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