Nothing But the Truth

I've always felt, for some reason, ever since I was a child, a pressure to answer any question that was put to me, as accurately, truthfully, and correctly as possible. Unfortunately, sometimes accuracy, truth, and "correctness" have been in conflict with each other. When that happens, I have never known what to do. My seventh-grade science teacher said to me, with a pained sigh, "Lisa. Just go back to your desk, and mark. true. or. false." 

I am caught between all my felt obligations--to give the questioner the answer they are looking for (correctness), the actual facts of the situation (accuracy), and the real heart of the matter (truth). I try hard--often too hard--to reconcile all three, to package the truth together with the facts and make it fit in the correct box. But sometimes there just doesn't seem to be any box that will hold the answer that is true.

Nowhere have I felt this more keenly over recent years than when it comes to my divorce.

When bad things happen, it's only natural that people have a lot of questions. Painful things are hard. They are scary, and not just for the person they have happened to. We are afraid, and we need answers. Sometimes, we look for the answers that will comfort us in doctrine, research, or teaching. Sometimes we simply find them in our own opinions. Sometimes we look to the person who has been most affected, to tell their story, to supply the facts. Knowing the answers lets us feel like we can make sense of it all, like we have it figured out--even that we can protect ourselves from suffering the same outcome.

The questions I've experienced surrounding my divorce have come from all of these places. They've sometimes been asked as questions, and sometimes been expressed as certainties, but even when they are made as pronouncements of fact, there is still a query behind them that is directed with expectation at me. Which answer box does my situation fit in?

Was the divorce my fault? Was it his fault? Which one of us divorced the other? Was it because of an affair? Maybe even one of those dreaded "emotional affairs" we are so fond of warning about? Was it because we thought we could just give up when the going got tough--because we didn't remove "divorce" from our vocabulary? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DID WE LET THE SUN GO DOWN ON OUR ANGER??

"Teacher, was it this man who sinned, or his parents, that he was born blind?" 

We know these are the possible correct answers. Please choose one. We are waiting.

The problem is, I am being asked a question that I can't answer. Not because I don't know the answer. No. I know. In fact, I am the expert. I know every detail, every moment, every memory and scar. I can't answer because it's an impossible question, it's a trick question. No one could answer it.

I didn't get divorced because I wasn't open to reconciliation, or because I didn't pray the Scriptures for my husband, or because it was never a true Christian marriage to begin with. (All of which, in case you are wondering, have actually been said to me.) I didn't get divorced because I knew someone else who got divorced, even though statistics show that people are much more likely to get divorced if they know someone who has, because seeing others who just give up when things get difficult can make you think it's an easy option to give up too. (Yes, also said to me.) I wasn't just unhappy with my husband and decided to get rid of him--in doing so, by the way, making a friend who is currently struggling in marriage think that maybe she can do the same. (Yep. This one too. Not by the friend, of course.)

I know this isn't what people want to hear, but the truth at the heart of my divorce will not fit into any of these preconceived theological certainties. You won't find the answer to it in any article with five easy tips for keeping your marriage happy, or five terrible mistakes to avoid. No marriage class or seminar would have fixed it. Please understand, if any of these things have been valuable to you or are relevant to your experience, I am not dismissing that. I am speaking only of my own situation. The sweeping generalities are part of the problem. But my story, my counselor tells me, only I will truly know, and that will have to be enough, both for you and for me.

So people. Christians. Friends and acquaintances, brothers and sisters, family. We have come from the same place, you and I; we've walked the same, familiar spiritual path, and I understand. I know that not one of you means me any harm. I'm sure that most of you, if you are aware of having had these questions for me at all, stopped asking them long ago, and do not even realize that I am still struggling to answer them, every time I hear you talk about marriage, divorce, and relationships. I'm just learning, myself, how much I still feel the pressure to answer correctly, in a way that will satisfy you, and I know that much of that pressure is coming from no one but myself. I do love you, and I believe we have a responsibility to each other.  I believe we are accountable to each other. I do. Nevertheless, I am finally coming to know, probably too late in life, that sometimes the problem is not with the answer. Sometimes it is with the question. And I have reached a point where the effort of trying to make the truth fit into one of the boxes is tying me in knots. It is hindering my forward motion. There's a problem with the question, and it's time I stopped trying to answer it. It's time, as my counselor says, for me to learn to honor my narrative, not to defend it. It's time to tell myself, and everyone else, the truth. The truth is, it's a bullshit question. It's as simple as that.