Blog
From and about women who love Jesus and want to share His message through Scripture, everyday inspirations, and relatable stories.
The last thing I wanted to do at twenty-three years old was start over. My life had been all planned out—I met the boy I wanted to marry when I was sixteen, we got married in college while I was finishing my degree in education, and then I got the teaching position I wanted. We bought a house, we were involved in a small group at church, and I could picture what our future kids would look like when they came into our lives in the scheduled three to five years from then.
“Alright everyone, we’re going to start off with a little get-to-know-you question. Let’s go around the circle and say what actor you’d want to play you in a movie about your life. Stephanie, you want to go first?”
There’s one sentence I will inevitably hear after every single event either of my kids participate in, no matter how big or small: “Can we go get dessert after to celebrate?”
“But I don’t wanna change schools! I love my school!” my son Asher objected as we brought up the idea for the first time. “Why do I need to? I’ll never see my friends again!”
I know most people think they know everything when they’re young, but y’all, I REALLY thought I knew everything.
“Wait just a second…you’re telling me we have to climb up this waterfall just by holding hands with a bunch of strangers? No ropes or harnesses or anything?”
“I don’t believe in God anymore, and I don’t want to be married anymore.”
Those fourteen words from my husband’s mouth completely changed the trajectory of my life. They exploded my life and made divorce a part of my story—something I never thought would happen. Yet, there I was, twenty-three and fighting desperately for a marriage that was slipping through my fingers.
As much as I’ve tried, as many hours and countless miles that I have put into it, and as much as I’ve tried to convince myself otherwise, I’m finally ready to admit something—I hate running.
“I don’t wanna go to bed! I’m not TIRED!” my seven-year-old daughter cries, as if I’ve said something terribly offensive.
“Well, then go brush your teeth and read in your bed for a bit,” trying my hardest not to let my frustration dictate my tone.