Easter Sunday, 1997
I watched my two little girls enjoying their baskets that the Easter bunny had brought. We sat in the living room, me in pajamas, the girls in mismatched play clothes. We tried to be quiet so we would not awaken the sleeping giant that was my husband and their father. He had given strict instructions the night before that he was to be allowed to sleep late. When asked about the girls Easter baskets, he said, “Video tape it for me. I want to sleep.” I knew better than to ask about church. Crossing him would probably result in violence. It was best to let the giant sleep.
I knew in my heart this was not how Easter should be. I knew in my heart this was not how life should be. I had prayed for months that God would show me what to do. If I was to stay things had to change. If I was to get out it would take divine intervention.
Although I couldn’t see it, God was answering my prayers. He was standing ready to rescue me and my two toddler daughters. He had heard my plea and the prayers of friends and family. Like the first Easter, this day was to be a miraculous one for our family.
Later that morning I faced a dilemma. One of my husband’s friends had come to the house wanting to borrow an item that belonged to my husband. My options were to loan it without permission or to wake him up. Neither seemed wise. I decided that asking for permission was the lesser of the two evils. After the friend left my husband pounded on the bedroom wall. I understood that I was being summoned to the bedroom. There I took the beating I could have predicted. It was not as severe as some I had endured, but it was every bit as humiliating.
My husband’s sister and her friend were coming for Easter lunch. My husband was cooking. My role was to be at his beck and call. I searched his eyes in vain for clues that he had calmed down. Our guests arrived. My husband was charming and welcoming to them, but his looks held nothing but contempt and hatred for me. At one point the guests and my daughters were in the living room. My husband and I were alone in the kitchen.
“Wash off that platter,” he barked. I held the platter, and waited for my six-foot-three, three-hundred-and seventy-five-pound husband to move from in front of the sink. He turned, and seeing the platter not yet washed, raised the spatula over his head. How far would he go with people in the next room? What would he do to me after they left?
There was no audible voice, but in my heart I heard, “Go now. It’s time to leave.” I had prayed for God to show me a way out. God spoke—and I listened. I put the platter down and waked out the front door.
This escape attempt felt different than others I had attempted. In the past my husband would come after me. He would convince me or force me to come back. I didn’t open the garage to get my van for fear that he would hear and come after me. I started walking down the highway in front of our house.
I was too scared to pray, but I did feel God’s presence. I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder but strained my ears listening for footsteps or the roar of his truck engine.
I made it to a convenience store near the middle of town. I went inside and bought a soft drink. Still there were no footsteps. There was no sound of his truck. What should I do next?
I walked downtown to the courthouse, where the sheriff’s office was located. I sat on the steps outside and asked God, “What do I do now?” For years, my husband’s criticism and anger had whittled away my confidence. My appearance, my choice of friends, and my parenting were my husband’s favorite targets. I didn’t know what I liked or didn’t like anymore. My best decision making had gotten me where I was now. I had married this man twice, thinking things would be different— I was wrong.
I didn’t want to be one of those women who files charges one day drops them the next. I didn’t want to be a woman who dies at the hand of her spouse either. My choices were to go inside and file a report or go back home. With an unfamiliar sense of peace and strength, I walked into the sheriff’s office. “My husband hit me. I want him arrested.”
One deputy took my report. Others went and arrested my husband. My children stayed at the house with our Easter guests.
Weeks later, my thinking was less clouded by fear. I was safe because my husband was in jail. I was almost free from this man who had controlled my life. He had belittled every decision I made, doubted every word I spoke, and betrayed every trust I placed. He met every shortcoming, real or perceived, with anger and violence. That was over.
The authorities filed charges against him. His parole officer started proceedings to revoke his parole. I filed for divorce—again. I gathered my strength and asked him, “Why didn’t you come after me?”
His reply, “I never knew you were gone.”
God moved a stone that Easter Sunday in 1997. He blinded my husband to the fact that I had walked out of the house. My children and I walked out of the tomb of that abusive marriage.
In the years since that Sunday, God has taken care of us. He has been our provider, our healer, and our protector. He provided friends and church family to surround and support us. I learned to trust God and to walk in confidence instead of fear.
God hears us when we call to Him. He is faithful. He will answer.
When I called, you answered me; you made me bold and stouthearted. Psalm 138:3
Though I walk in the midst of trouble, you preserve my life; you stretch out your hand against the anger of my foes, with your right hand you save me. The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me; your live, O Lord, endures forever—do not abandon the works of your hands. Psalm 138:7-8