A Wife Loved Like The Church

I nearly burned our house down on Friday.

You might think that is a slight overstatement, but it’s not. I put a pot of stew on the stove, walked outside to play with the girls and that was the end. I had no concept of the time passed. I had no clue what was taking place, literally, feet from me. No alarms. No smell of smoke. Nothing triggered me, but Jack’s barking.

Jack {who was outside as well} started barking and barking. At first I dismissed him, then when he persisted, I went to the back door to find my kitchen/living room filled with smoke. Black, nasty smoke. In the moment, I calmly removed the pot, opened the windows and began to air out the house. Thankfully, nothing was damaged beyond the charred pot, though the smell of fire still lingering this morning.

Saturday morning, I flooded the girls’ bathroom. The toilet got clogged while I was cleaning and water started flowing everywhere.

I panicked. 

My first instint was “Don’t tell Jonathan.” You see, I’d already failed miserably the day before and we were still paying for it {by way of spending all Saturday morning cleaning and washing our smoke filled home}. I didn’t want him to see my failure again. I was ashamed. Embarrassed. Guilty. I wanted to run. Hide. Escape.

Finally, I called out for Jonathan. Even though I knew he was frustrated, he still loved me through it. He stayed calm. Fixed the situation.

And that’s when I lost it.

I ran.

I hid.

I sat in our bathroom and wept.

I calculated all the ways I failed. All the things I’d done wrong. Again. All the ways I didn’t deserve love. Didn’t deserve a second change.

Then there was a knock at the door. It was Julia.

“Mama, why are you sad?”

More tears.

Then another knock. It was Hannah.

“Mama, sad?”

More tears.

Then another knock. It was Jonathan.

“Babe, come out, please. You have two adorable daughters and a husband that loves you. Come out.”

Then a final knock. It was God.

“Sarah you are loved. By Me.”

I opened the door. Both to my family and to my God.

When I am in pain, I run. When I have failed, I run. When my trials are too big, too overwhelming, I run. I hide from the pain, from the failure, from the trial. I run and hide because I am afraid that maybe this time – this time – I’ve gone to far. I’ve messed up too much. This time I can’t be forgiven. This time I can’t make it right.

But that isn’t true.

Through Christ’s blood, I will always be forgiven.

Through Christ’s death, I will always be made right.

This weekend, through my failures, my family’s love spoke to me. My husband’s kind direction and warm embrace. My daughters’ gentleness and sweet innocence. Through them, God reminded me that I can run, I can hide, but He will always find me. He will always knock at my door. He will always pursue me. Because, in my failures, He loves me most of all.