Dragging myself to bed, it was nearly 1am. Day 4 since the exposure, and 5 hours since The Whisper called me to forgive. Fan humming, my two sleeping girls recharged their bodies with every inhale and exhale, but for me it would be another sleepless night with our unborn. My son tumbling warm in his womb, chiming in to my quiet whimper with the nudge of his heel, and I am unable to deny that God grows life in the midst of sorrow.
Hand rubbing belly, the inward conversation began. I had not spoken to the Lord since yelling at him on the porch, but His hovering wouldn’t go away, for where could I go where His presence would not be (psalm 139:7)? “Jesus, I see that cross you are asking me to bear. Its not what I want, but I remember that you also asked our Father for another way (Matt 26:39), to the point of sweating blood. I don’t understand, and haven’t a clue how to do this, because I am not sure I have ever really forgiven anyone of something this costly. Nonetheless, I invite you into this violation.”
Hot tears streaming down my cheeks, my belly begins to contract. Dehydration was having its way with my body, as stress was making it difficult to drink water without feeling nausea. I may not be sweating blood, but my pain, it matters. I matter. For the first time in my life, I could see how costly it was to forgive my sin upon the cross, and how much I must have mattered to God, that he would take my transgression and suffer in my place.
Written on it was the entire affair in all its gory detail. Countless hours of flirtatious conversation, the exchange of many photos, lies upon lies, the double life. Its heavy, full of sensual demise, and I am wondering how its even possible to pick it up, let alone carry it.
Long metal rods driven in by hammer would be every time I chose to hold back taking vengeance into my own hands; every time I chose against reminding Burris of the “great mercy” I had for him by granting pardon (self righteousness); every time I chose to pursue him warm and tenderly instead of avoiding him or being frigid; every time I chose not to diminish him in the presence of others; every time I refuse to ask people to “pray for him” in the spirit of gossip.
The finale would prove most difficult for me; The refusal of playing back the offense in order to keep the loss fresh in my mind. It would mean relinquishing my fleshly desire to see him suffer, in exchange for the Spirit within me who prays that he would be restored in repentance.
Now 3am, I sleep, knowing that my husband would be set free, with great cost, and in no way would I ever be alone in my suffering.