What I didn't get to say

 Dear friend,

I read your name today and painfully remembered the last conversation we had. It was an exchange of text messages, and we were both hurting. I wanted you to understand, to not take his side, to back me up--but mostly to understand. I wanted you to see my pain and acknowledge it was legitimate. But you were hurt indirectly by my words against him. We were both so hurt, and instead of responding in a patient and loving manner, I avoided you. And within a couple of months, I'd moved away. We lost touch--mostly because I was so resentful--and I often wondered about you. Not enough to pick up my phone and send a text. Not enough to ask about you from the others I left behind. There was still that pain. 

And now that pain has turned to regret. If I had known that your days were so numbered, would I have reached out to you? Moved beyond my pain and asked your forgiveness? 

Our friendship was so short, and yet you brought me to life in a way I'd forgotten was possible. You made me laugh with your goofiness and got me through long days at work with wacky text messages. You were positive and made me feel likable at a time when I was struggling through recent divorce and raising two kids on my own. You were a deep thinker and made me examine my own thoughts and assumptions about life. You were a shoulder to lean on, with gentle hands to help untangle my yarn. I wish I had known you longer, known you sooner, before it all fell apart. I wish we could have been true friends. I wish we could have weathered the storm together instead of letting it tear us apart.

It's possible you never thought of me after we moved, after everything ended. You were social and surrounded by friends all the time, so maybe you didn't remember me. That would be OK. But I remembered you. And I wish I had taken the time to tell you I was sorry, to reach out again and enjoy your smile.

You believed your soul will live on with Jesus, so I'll hope that in some way you get a chance to see this. For whatever it's worth, I wanted to tell you I loved you, and that I'm sorry I didn't love you better. 

I miss you.

Saralynn

Hiding

Yesterday I didn’t say happy birthday to a friend on Facebook, even though their family was once very close to mine and I still love them like family. It’s not that I forgot to wish them a happy birthday; it’s that I was embarrassed. Why?

Because I’m divorced.

One of the hardest things about being divorced has been facing those I knew in my old evangelical life, all of whom I’ve disappointed by dissolving my marriage. If I took time to explain the emotional and psychological abuse, the gaslighting, they might—might—feel sorry for me and offer to pray for me. One or two might actually think the end of my marriage was the right thing (though still probably not "good"). But every one of them is disappointed. Even if I never see these people from my past ever again, or even hear from them, I know in my bones, and in the depths of my soul, that I have failed them. 

I was a “good” girl. I never drank or smoked. I saved myself for marriage, didn’t even kiss a boy ever until my wedding night. I did all the right things. And yet my marriage failed. Either I picked the wrong person and was foolish in following my heart, or I picked the right person but was foolish in letting it end. Either way, I failed. I’m a single mom, and I bear the unbelievably heavy weight of disappointment from everyone who’s ever loved me.

It’s heavy. So heavy. The shame is overwhelming. Never mind that half of marriages in the country end in divorce. Never mind that just as many of those divorces are of Christian couples. That doesn’t matter. In my evangelical upbringing, divorce is sinful, and a divorced person is someone to be pitied and avoided. And as an exvangelical, I am struggling against the weight and chains that bind me to this anguish of shame. I have left the Church but will need years to process now to break the chains.

And until then, I will continue to hide from the Christian men and women I respect, those who loved me when I was “good.” Interacting with them is just too painful. Even if we never speak of my marriage or divorce, I will feel their disappointment and slowly cave in upon myself while murmuring my mantra: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”