Those Who Mourn

by Elizabeth Leon

I hate divorce.

I adore my second husband. He is the love of my life and brings me incredible joy, and I still hate being divorced.

I don’t miss my ex-husband at all, but I miss being not divorced.

It has been almost 15 years since the decree ending my first marriage.

I rarely speak to my ex-husband even by text now that the children are teenagers and everyone has a cell phone. Most of the ugliness and toxicity of the early years has waned and there is a (relatively) predictable rhythm to the ebb and flow of who is with whom and when. I am sure I am not the only parent counting how many more years of shared custody we have left to navigate.

But I still hate it.

I hate that my children have two homes and often feel conflicting loyalties. I hate that they are not here with me all the time and not with both their parents. I hate that they worry about when they will be here or there or “whose time it is.”

I have not been perfect in navigating the tumultuous, agonizing waters of a broken family – especially when it was my heart’s desire to do anything and everything possible to keep it from breaking.

Divorce is the “gift” that keeps on giving, in all the worst ways. Being a child of divorce, I know this first hand. My parents’ divorce was 38 years ago, and it was still sad that both my parents wanted to go to the beach with us this summer but could not, for several reasons, be there at the same time.

Despite spending many years intentionally processing and healing from my divorce, it is still like a chronic illness. When you have children, divorce is not “one and done.” It is day in and day out.

Yes, there is forgiveness, an ongoing messy process. There is surrender and acceptance and marveling at a forest of blessings that grew from the furrows of earth that were ripped into the landscape of my life. God is always faithful, so there is great goodness in the place I find myself years after my divorce.

And yet… some days, the hard parts still take my breath away, and I let myself feel the ache and mourn the loss of the wholeness I wanted for my children and my family. I rage inside myself for a bit and reach out to wise friends who remind me of who I am and how I want to love with courage, sacrifice, and truth.

Divorce is another chance for me to hold space for two conflicting realities: the mystery of both/and.

Abandoned, Fritz von Uhde, 1890

I can be desperately in love with my second husband and still hate divorce.

I can be grateful for growth in humility and trust and still mourn when my children happily leave to go to their dad’s.

I can have faith that this cross has made me more the woman I am meant to be and still stumble under its weight some days.

It’s grief.

Grief that we have all suffered so much, and grief for what I could not give my children. Grief that my ex-husband still loathes my existence (a recent direct quote).

Part of learning to let myself be loved is giving myself the permission to feel what I feel, even after 15 years. I am intentional about not shaming myself for my feelings and am learning to soothe myself with curiosity, kindness, and self-compassion.

Our stories are hard enough without self-condemnation.

It’s not unlike calming a disappointed child. If I brush her off and tell her to stop crying and pull herself together, she will likely just hurt more. Instead, I fold her into my arms and stroke her hair and whisper, “I am so sorry. I am right here.”

So, this is what divorce feels like for me today. It’s awful.

I pray you can let yourself be loved in the place where you find yourself today.

---