When you think that you’ve married the wrong one, He full-fills
It was on a blistering August day in the summer of 1987 that two dark-headed, naive, but determined kids walked up the aisle, gave the assent, pledged their troth, and went forth.
As husband and wife.
They had no clue, those kids, what the years would bring. That in the next three decades, four handsome, blue-eyed boys would be delivered sans stork. That they would venture out to worlds unknown and earn a college degree. In another state. That The Girl would start a new career (several of them, actually), or that The Boy would start a business.
They couldn’t know (and, oh, this was good) what trials and troubles awaited. What stretchings and prunings and–well, what fire, or which furnace. What pain. What travail. But what glory.
Two parents divorcing, a family torn asunder. A prodigal son, love’s fierce testing.
Earthquakes and rumblings, tectonic plates shifting beneath the crust of their hearts. Spirits worn.
The tide ebbed low; so low at times that the riverbed, exposed, lay cracked and bare. They longed and panted and petitioned and begged for the rain of righteousness and of healing. For a flood of life, of blessing, of relief to cover dry bed, bring refreshing.
In all of the struggle and years of hard working, they never did question their commitment, those two. And yet…and yet…
What a mixture.
Some heaven. Some hell. Much laughter, happy memories, but the passing of pain back and forth, hot potato.
For hurt people, it is said, hurt people. And they did.
But now, that number. Two and nine.
In all of the ups and the downs they have shared, The Girl, today, is knowing this: that none if it’s been a mistake. She didn’t marry the wrong boy. That God’s hand was in it. That The Boy didn’t marry the wrong girl. No, he didn’t.
For the sandpaper edges of The Girl helped The Boy. And The Boy’s own rough edges helped The Girl…
To be better! To be stronger, to find freedom.
To be holy. To find, each of them, their true Father. Oh, what glory.
Today, someone is reading (I believe Jesus has sent you) who believes they have married the wrong one. ‘Cause you’re hurting.
You’re hurting. You’re unhappy. You feel unfulfilled, and you’re sick to your bones with disappointment. With heart-ache.
For you think that you’ve made a mistake.
Oh, hang with me. What if this person with all his rough edges is the one Papa’s using for your healing? What if this girl with her tongue stinging sharp is a little girl lost, she’s not trusting? She needs your lovin’?
What if your spouse is the one that you need to refine you, to polish, to prune? What if that? And what if you will learn at last that He’s your Father? That you’re no orphan? That He can full-fill you to running over. No matter what your spouse is or isn’t.
If you are in an abusive situation, hurting one, please get help. Abuse is just never justified. Speak out.
For the one at the end of the rope, there is a Well that never runs dry. There is a Healer Who truly heals. There is a Father Who never sleeps, always works, and your Maker Himself is your Husband.
He’s the One (I know this) Who gives beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, and a garment expressive of praise in exchange for the spirit of despair. He’s got you covered. (And if I can pray for you, just slip me a message.)
Giving thanks today, for glory always and ever follows suff’ring,