Autopsy of an ex-marriage
by David Wesley Reid
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What on earth am I doing
here?" That question ham
mered me as I sat motion
less on a long oak bench in the lobby
of the county courthouse. "Dear God,
I'm a loving husband, father, and pas
tor. Yet here I am in divorce court!"
Never in a million years would I have
envisioned myself in this situation.
Every marriage on earth might come
unglued, but not mine. It can't be
happening!
But it was. No matter how much I
mentally pinched myself to awaken
from a bad dream, the scene was real.
My wife wanted out of the marriage.
I sat next to my attorney for what
seemed an eternity, fear and confu
sion churning in my stomach. Around
me the lobby was bustling with activ
ity. Lawyers with briefcases scurried
about. Court personnel toting offi
cial-looking documents whisked past
me. Uniformed security guards
checked every person and package
that came through the door. Across
the cavernous lobby a cart vendor
slumped against the wall, seeming
annoyed anytime someone had the
audacity to order coffee or a dough
nut. In the midst of it all were the
hurting people, dozens and dozens of
them, wearing sad faces. They fidg
eted nervously in their seats or flitted
about like flies, anxiously awaiting
their "day in court."
I was one of them. It all seemed
surreal, like a Dali painting.
As I surveyed this courthouse
scene, my gaze was drawn to my wife.
She too was seated on a large bench,
facing me, about 30 feet away. A
stern and determined look furrowed
her brow. Frequently she leaned over
and whispered to her attorney, as if
afraid that I would overhear their
"strategy." Occasionally she cast fur
tive glances in my direction, perhaps
evaluating how I was handling the
pressure.
Concerned about me? Not any
more. She was on a mission "to
become a whole person." Somehow
that involved leaving me out of her
life.
Was this the same woman I'd met
in college 25 years earlier? Back then,
after just a few dates, we both knew
that love was in the air. Two years
later we were married. Now here we
were, many miles down the road, star
ing at each other across a tile-floored
legal battlefield.
"How could this be?" I pondered
in my pain. This is the woman I love,
the mother of my three boys. My
friend. My wife! How could she do
this!
She loves me not
That courthouse experience, diffi
cult though it was, represented a wel
come end to the strenuous 18 months
that preceded it, when hopes of recon
ciliation rose and fell like a roller
coaster. "Strap yourself in good and
tight, David," a friend had advised
me. "You're in for quite a ride!" So it
was, leaving me emotionally and
physically exhausted. The fall of the
judge's gavel signaled legal closure
on the agonizing ordeal of "she loves
me, she loves me not."
It was on my oldest son's four teenth birthday that I first heard the
bad news. Our family party was in full
swing when I noticed that my wife
was missing. I found her in our bed
room, curled up on our double bed.
"What's wrong?" I inquired. Her
reply shook me to the core of my soul.
I had no clue that what she was about
to divulge had been percolating in her
mind for a long time.
"David, I don't know how to tell
you this, but I don't think I love you
anymore."
"What did you say!" I gasped.
"I feel like I don't love you any
more!" she repeated.
There had been no warning, no
revealing change in behavior, no ver
bal clues, no hint even in the most
intimate areas of our married life, that
she was struggling. Had I been dense
for not knowing about the storm brew
ing in her soul?
I implored her to reconsider or at
least go with me to counseling. No.
Nothing and no one could dissuade
her from divorce. Many tried.
Too busy too much
One of the most destructive temp
tations during the divorce process in
volves playing the "blame game." In
me it represented a passive-aggres
sive attempt to chastise my former
wife for divorcing me without re
course. But it also served as a thinly
disguised bid to avoid looking at the
part I may have played.
"David," a friend advised, "if you
are going to deal with this construc
tively, think about how you may have
contributed to the demise of the rela
tionship. Blaming her serves no pur
pose."
Godly counsel. It started me on a
retrospective journey. I realized that I
had been too busy too much of the
time. Many pastors reading this can
relate all too well. So many members
in so much need! So many meetings.
Weddings. Funerals. Keeping up with
it all is a massive challenge, not one
that I always handled well. By the
time I finished emptying my reservoir
of emotional energy for the flock, not
much was left for my wife.
I loved her dearly and often com
municated it in words. Too often those
words weren't supported by actions.
My wife had always assured me
bravely: "God has called me to sup
port you, David. That is my minis
try." She verbalized regularly and
convincingly, and I believed her.
What's more, she believed herself.
But in the end it turned out that we
both had been deceiving ourselves.
Meanwhile, I continued to do my pas
toral "thing," rejoicing every day that
the Lord had favored me with such a
loving and loyal wife. Often I re
minded myself: "Surely, no pastor is
more blessed than I."
Her own emotional issues, unre
solved from childhood, surely were a
factor in her eruption of resentment
that suddenly blew apart the mar
riage. Nevertheless, my overinvest
ment in pastoral work contributed to
the collapse of the relationship.
Other women
I learned other things in my retro
spective analysis of our failed mar
riage. For example, I realized how
blinded I had been to my wife's jeal
ousy over the attention I gave to other
women. Being their pastor, women
frequently approach me for crisis sup
port. Phone calls, counseling sessions,
and muted conversations in a quiet
corner of the supermarket are com
mon occurrences. All part of the pas
toral calling. No big deal!
Not for me, perhaps, but very much
for my wife. She was feeling emo
tionally neglected, and the attention I
granted other women gave volcanic
rise to molten feelings of jealousy.
She often assured me: "I don't have a
jealous bone in my body." The oppo
site was true. Her feelings of conster
nation and jealousy were so intense
that she forced herself to deny them,
even to herself. Not helpful were such
frequent remarks from church women
as "David's so sensitive to feelings."
My wife sweetly smiled at such ex
pressions, but inside her blood boiled.
"He pays attention to other women,
but what about me!" A provocative
question. And justifiable.
Ill-advised nightlife
My autopsy of our dead marriage
also revealed that I allowed too many
scheduled church activities to serve
as our "nights out" together.
"David, who's sitting for us?" was
my wife's standard end-of-the-week
inquiry. Every weekend we shared at
least one evening activity without
children. There was no lack of going
out together. The problem was that
most activities were related to church
work, providing an enjoyable evening
out but little opportunity for marriage
nurture.
We always were with other
people people associated with my
work. Going out on a date, just the
two of us, seemed like a great idea,
but three factors usually prevented
that from happening. First, we were
both tired from a demanding work
week. Second, we hated to turn the
children over to a sitter on yet another
night. And third, it was costly. So the
years rolled on, and our marriage cal
cified.
No loving relationship can move
forward without the wheels of inti
macy being lubricated frequently,
particularly a marriage relationship.
This requires deliberate, intentional
effort. I knew that in theory. In prac
tice, I simply deluded myself into
thinking that our marriage was so
strong it didn't need frequent mainte
nance. A sad mistake!
Her own identity
Beyond all of the above, I had
failed to help my wife develop her
own identity. Essentially our modus
operandi was: "A wife's responsibil
ity is to build up her husband. The
husband's responsibility is to savor it
graciously." This felt wonderful for
me, but it was devastating for my
wife. While I labored through five
years of graduate school, she duti
fully "brought home the bacon," typed
my papers, and generally did what
was necessary to help me. When I
finally emerged into full-time minis
try, the dynamic continued. Push,
push, push! Make my husband look
good. Help him up the ladder of suc
cess. Such is the calling of a godly
wife. This seemed to be her thinking,
and mine as well. It may have worked
for our parents, but it was wrong for
us.
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