The words stun.
Because I know what that means. I’m looking in the eyes of a woman who is about to turn her life upside down in her yes to Jesus.
“We are about to start the book as a family,” she motions to her three teens sitting at the picnic table.
“Except for that one chapter. We may skip over that one for now.”
And I knew which chapter she was referring to without even naming it.
It’s not the chapter about being a rich mom or the one about how lonely this road has been or the messy one about family life.
It’s the one about my marriage.
The one that talks about the secret sin of pornography and how it ripped my marriage apart and how God helped me choose forgiveness. It’s the intimate and hard-to-read pages of how my husband wanted freedom more than he wanted anything else. It’s the soul-splitting journal of the long, hard road to healing and the story behind the very special words on our wedding bands we gave each other the day we decided to marry all over again.
Most people think Rhinestone Jesus is about Mercy House. And it is. This unlikely home in the heart of Africa, funded by a bunch of moms–that is our family’s yes, our God-sized dream. It’s as wild and crazy as it sounds.
But Mercy House is today. That’s not the whole story. I know how easy it is to see where someone is today and think, “Huh. Well, my yes is small. I could never do something significant for God.”
And that’s why I start and end the book with brokenness. That’s why I invite you in -because you need to know where we started, the ups and downs, the heartbreak and healing journey to our yes.
Because it’s raw. It’s real. It’s as standing on the edge of destruction as you can get.
Not only does it make where we ended up more powerful: It’s a reminder of what God can do. He can do it for your marriage, too.
I used to hate that pornography was a part of my story. You may hate part of your story, too. I used to think I was alone in my marriage troubles. You may feel that, also. I used to think I was too broken to say yes. I was wrong. You may be, too.
Now? Today, I’m thankful for the brokenness in my marriage. I would have never known its strength if I wasn’t aware of its weakness. I would never have tasted intimacy if I hadn’t experienced void. I would never love my husband like I do today, if I didn’t nearly lose him.
I don’t know the secrets your marriage holds.
But I know who holds your marriage.
I can promise you–whatever brokenness that your story contain–don’t let it define you. Don’t let it imprison you. And please, don’t let it make you feel alone. Something miraculous happens when we release the brokenness: it sets us free.