impact

Darren and I don't fight much - never have. I tend to be a yeller (goes back to my need to be heard), but strangely, I haven't yelled once during this whole 2 month ordeal. That's not to say I haven't been angry, because just this morning I wanted to punch him in the throat. I've been angry. But I've managed my emotions in a way I've never bothered to before.

I say all this to say that I take some measure of comfort in knowing that the boys aren't being traumatized by fighting, cursing, yelling, crying, belittling, hatefulness, etc. They're not having to witness ugliness. I am thankful for that. But they are still being affected by the brokenness in our home, and just how much became evident to me last night.

We (the boys and I) have been doing a nightly devotional together (Josh McDowell's Devotionals for Youth). For the past week or so, the theme has been about justice - how the world views it, how God views it, how God expects us to act justly, why that's hard to do sometimes, how God is always just, etc etc. That topic has allowed us to speak candidly about some of the things we each consider unjust. Aidan mentioned two girls in his class that get picked for everything all the time, and no one else ever gets a chance to be picked because they're the teachers' favorites. He thinks that's so unfair. Ian told about waiting in line for ice cream at school, and suddenly a whole group of girls skipped in line with their friend in front of him, and how that's not fair. I said that I get sad that Daddy's sleeping in the guest room, and how the fact that we're having problems in our marriage isn't fair, because I didn't cause these problems. Then we talk about how we can react to each situation, and how God teaches us to react.

That particular night was the only time I've talked to them about what's going on, not counting the night Darren told them he had moved into the guest room and we were working on problems. I haven't wanted to bombard them with it, nor do I want to expose them to the ugliness of what's really going on here. There's a delicate balance to strike: what do they need to know to keep them from thinking the worst (because when you know nothing, your mind tends to settle on things that are usually far worse than the truth is), and what is too much to tell them? How often do I need to open the topic for conversation so that they know it's always safe and okay to talk to me about it, but how often does bringing it up become overwhelming for them? I don't know that I've found that balance; I've been erring on the side of caution just in case, and letting them guide the conversations.

Last night, the devotional subject changed; it was about loving your enemies. Part of it was about loving people who aren't necessarily ENEMIES, but just people who don't love you back, or don't love you first. When we started talking afterward about how each of us have experienced this kind of thing, Ian began to cry. I asked him what was wrong, but he wouldn't say. I said, "Are you angry?" NO!, he answered emphatically. "Are you sad?" I asked. He looked at me as if I had fifteen heads coming out of my head. Of course he was sad. "Are you afraid?" I asked.

He sobbed, "Yes! If you and Dad have a divorce, NOTHING WILL EVER BE THE SAME EVER AGAIN!"

At this, Aidan also began to cry, and put his arm around his little brother. I, too, began to weep.

"You're right, Ian. Nothing will ever be the same again. If we get a divorce, it will be sad. It will be scary. It will never be the same as it has always been. Our family will be different. But Ian, listen to me. That doesn't mean it will be bad.  Do you remember when we moved to this house? You were only two, but you cried for our old house for several months. You said you hated this house. You said it was mean, because you always slipped and fell on the wood floors. But soon, you LOVED this house with its stairs and its play room and its trees in the backyard, and the friends you met on our street, and the school you got to attend. Yes, we'll be sad at first. Divorce is always a sad thing, always. But we won't ALWAYS be sad. We'll still love each other, and we'll learn to be happy with the new way. Think of it this way: you'll get to have two Christmases, and two birthdays, and two vacations... every year!"

"But we won't be a FAMILY!" he cried.

This statement tore me up. Both boys were staring at me with tears streaming down their faces. Aidan was holding tightly to Ian's shoulder. They were waiting for me to tell them we WOULD be a family still. I had to lay my face in my pillow for several seconds and pray for words. Aidan reached across the bed and took my hand in his. Here was my precious 11-year old, taking his stand as the man of the family in that moment, comforting his little brother, and loving his broken Mommy. I saw God in that gesture, and it warmed me and broke me at the same time. It's so unfair to him, this role he's found himself taking on.

"I am so sorry," I began. "I'm sorry you're having to feel this pain. It sucks. I'm sorry you have to worry about our future and be afraid and sad and angry. You have a right to feel these things. I'm sorry you have to.

We will always be a family," I continued. "Daddy will always love you, ALWAYS. Just because he doesn't love me doesn't mean he doesn't love you. He has ALWAYS loved you. He loves you now. And he will never, ever stop loving you, because you are his sons. If he doesn't want to be married to me, that has nothing to do with you boys. This is not your fault. There's not a thing in this world you could have done differently, or should have done differently.

And me? I will always be your Mom. If we get divorced and you have to live with Dad sometimes and me sometimes, well.... that will be the saddest thing in the world for me. I will miss you so much on the days you're not with me. But I'll know that you're having fun with Dad, and he'll be loving and taking care of you, and I'll learn to be okay with that. Just like you will. And just like Dad, I will always, always love you, no matter what. You are my joy. You are my laughter. You are like the warm sunshine on cold winter days. You are my Aidan and Ian. I am your Mom. Nothing will ever change that. We will always be a family."

"I don't want you to get divorced," cried Ian.

"I don't want it either, Ian," I answered. "I love your Dad. I love our marriage. I love our life together. And besides... Dad hasn't decided yet. We shouldn't get too worried about something that hasn't even happened yet."

I asked if they wanted to pray about it, and they did, but when it came their turn to pray, neither of them had words. Aidan cried quietly, just with silent tears streaming down his face. Ian was more vocal, gasping between sobs, "I can't! I don't know what to say! I can't pray!"

My heart was shattering in to a million tiny pieces. I have been in that place so many times in the past month, not knowing what to say, or how, or even how to feel. So I said, "God, you know Ian's heart. You know his prayer. He doesn't even have to say it. You promised us in the Bible that you can hear our moans and cries and understand them. Thank you for hearing Ian and Aidan tonight."

It doesn't matter that we're being civil, kind, respectful. I mean, it matters, but it doesn't change the fact that our family is being destroyed by this unfathomable situation. The impact is huge. The fear and pain and turmoil is real. And so at the end of the evening, after having talked about loving your enemies and those who don't love you first, I had to grapple with the feeling that I hate Darren for doing this to our family, to our boys.