I had married a pedophile. The frightful day I received the news my mind moved like sludge through the conversation, as if I were in a dream. The moments were permanently seared into my memory: where I was, how I paced the floor, how fear rushed through my body, as somehow I knew this was the answer to so many reservations I had. Through this turn of events, my life’s mission spun into something unanticipated. My role as a parent from this day forward would now be to raise and guide two beautiful, creative, innocent souls to one day forgive the man they loved the most, the same man whom I feared.
As the days following inched away, a whirlwind of truth emerged: a raid, detectives, reports, interviews, surveillance, and grotesque images. The local news and web were littered with stories of a trusted man, who had been exposed. The secret was out and my world became a nightmare.
When I say my marriage was beyond rocky, I mean it was 19 years (that’s 6,935 days) of tumultuous manipulation, mind games, gas-lighting, blame, withholding affection, harmful words and lies. His actions never embraced faith, love and family. It was consistently the opposite.
My days were spent calculating my husband’s moves and behaviors, questioning his words and attempting to reconcile it with a Biblical idea of marriage. 14 Years of staccato counseling never relieved the deep wounds and no books or philosophy ever altered the growing divide of mistrust and abandonment.
No one grows up thinking they’re going to marry a pedophile, a criminal or a monster, especially if you’re a straight-laced Christian schoolgirl. Sometimes making All The Right Choices doesn’t lead to a fairy tale. That was also the hard truth. And in the months to follow, I had some difficult decisions to make about how I would survive this traumatic season. These pages are filled with my story of God's lavish grace and my healing journey.
