Fire and Water: The Battle Between Destruction and Renewal

How Truth, Pain, and Grace Brought Me Through the Storm

I don’t enjoy diving back into memories of the affair. I used to. For a long time, I felt compelled to climb through the fog, allowing myself to float weightlessly through the moments that awaited me there. That space felt safe—safer than the harsh reality of the aftermath when it washed over me. This dynamic, wading into the past to try to understand what happened, served its purpose for a time.

It was like I was standing on the shore of an ocean, its edges lifted by chaos and the ominous music of sin. I knew the Lord had pulled me from danger by dragging me out from beneath its currents, but I wasn’t yet grateful. I was devastated. Angry. Confused. Exhausted. My eyes squinted, as if I was in a dark room and someone had suddenly flipped on the light. I was disoriented.

With each wave that rose before me, I watched as it grew far above my head, storm-tossed memories that were both threatening and filled with the promise of sweeping me back into the center of the escape I had chosen for six months. Every wave that swelled enveloped me, and in a violent rush toward darkness, I was pulled head over feet, spinning into a silent but noisy abyss. I found myself miles from the shore over and over again, mouth filled with salt, eyes burning and growing tired of seeing.

What I didn’t know then, but desperately hoped was true, was that every time I faced those memories head-on and told the truth about what they were made of, I was growing muscles. In my legs, my arms, and strength in the core of myself as I wrestled with the ocean, the moon, and the creatures that stirred just out of sight. There came a time when, standing on that very same shore of understanding, the violence of the water lessened. The waves weren’t quite as high as they once were. They still crashed over me, but something began to shift. Instead of being forced back out to sea, I continued to stand, wet, beaten, scared, but hopeful. I could feel the strength I was gaining, and I knew the only way to withstand the memories, the grief, and the loss, and to turn my head fully toward the horizon, was to keep standing there until I could withstand even the most ferocious invitations to fall.

Have you ever noticed that even the ocean must obey God? It makes no sense to me that the bodies of water that rage under storm clouds then lazily fold back into themselves under clear skies stay within their bounds. They lift and fall, roll and cut jagged edges into the shore with a power that far outmatches our human ability to withstand its destructive might.

But God.

He is the one who causes the depth of the water to run quickly toward our feet and then roll back into its predetermined boundary. That’s power. That’s grace. It’s also mercy. Nothing is ever just one thing.

All of this is to say, I am no longer being caught by the ankles and dragged into the riptides of the past. The affair existed in a place in time, and it had limits. So did the years of wrestling with the shipwreck left in its wake.

I’ll end with this:

On the morning my husband confronted Erik—before that fateful event took place—I was getting ready for the day. I was in the shower when a deep sense of fear filled my mind. It was so tangible I could almost smell it. It held the scent of sulfur and roadkill. While I was looking forward to spending the day with Erik, I also felt a cold threat in the room. So, I prayed:

“Jesus, I know you see what’s happening, and the truth is I don’t want it to end. But I am aware that it has to. Please help me want it to end. Please send someone to help me. Someone I’ll listen to. Someone who will be able to convince me to get out of this situation.”

Two hours later, He sent my husband. Not to me. To Erik. And Erik immediately switched from the charming lover he had once been to a man with a torch, trying to light me on fire.

Praise God for my husband, the smell of sulfur, and the fire of God’s jealous love for me.