Every so often I think,
this is really not what I wanted.
I know this is selfish, discontent, pity, grumbling, complaining, etc.,
but really, this is really not what I wanted.
This silence. This cool bed. These solitary hands. This absence. This giant, gaping hole.
I liked being a wife. It fit me really well.
I liked being domestic. Cooking dinners. Making a comfortable home for a man who worked, sometimes really, really hard to the point of exhaustion. We didn't have a really great marriage. We didn't have a really great story at all, actually.
It was messy. Ugly. Filled with all the pieces that I wish I could undo. But I tried really hard to make it pretty.
This whole thing. This empty left-hand ring finger is not what I wanted.
It's what I got instead that I find more amazing.
Because, as much as I liked being a wife, I find the abundance of grace and forgiveness more beautiful. Somehow, starting over has meant so much more than just my own story. I find the restoration in broken relationships with people I hadn't talked to in five years to be a very bittersweet, emotional, God-exalting thing.
I'm learning that I don't have to try to hide what I thought I needed to prove.
It turns out the Father does run to the son (or in this case, daughter), who stumbles back onto the property, searching for some kind of relief.
What a moment to discover that falling short of everything I wanted is precisely what I needed.
I think that's a good place to start.