For most of my life, I lived with what I now recognize as a Cinderella Complex—the belief that I was the helpless princess waiting for a handsome prince to rescue me. That mindset led me through a series of painful relationships, a disastrous marriage, and eventually a heartbreaking divorce. In an attempt to escape the pain of living near my ex-husband and the woman he left me for, I rushed into another marriage—this time to a Christian man—hoping he would be the one to finally make me whole. But in reality, it felt like I had jumped from the frying pan into the fire.
In the midst of my confusion and heartache, I’ve had many honest conversations with God. I’ve told Him I don’t ever want to miss His will again. And through different confirmations, He’s shown me that He is interested in this marriage—that there are deep, precious lessons He wants to teach me through it, lessons that will ultimately bring glory to His name. The very first one He began to reveal was the true role of a wife.
She wasn’t created as an assistant. She was created as an answer.
Somewhere along the way, the word “helper” was watered down — turned into something quiet, background, optional. But in God’s eyes, the woman was never a backup plan. She was a divine solution.
🌧 A World Half Covered
Imagine a battlefield. A soldier stands alone, armor on, sword shaking in his hand. The enemy surrounds him. He’s called by God to stand, to lead — but every arrow coming at him is finding its mark. He wasn’t built to do this alone.
Then someone steps onto the battlefield. Not behind him — beside him. Shield raised. Eyes sharp. Praying under her breath. Covering his back.
This is ēzer.
1. “Helper” — The Word That Describes God
“I will make a helper suitable for him.” – Genesis 2:18
The Hebrew word for helper is ʿēzer. And most of the time this word appears in the Bible, it’s referring to God Himself.
“The Lord is my help (ʿēzer) and my shield.” – Psalm 33:20
“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help (ʿēzer) in trouble.” – Psalm 46:1
So when God said Eve would be Adam’s “helper”, He wasn’t talking about an assistant or a housekeeper. He was describing someone who would reflect His own nature — His strength, His support, His presence in the battle.
Eve was created to:
Stand beside Adam as an equal and strong ally
Protect him in prayer and purpose
Strengthen him when he is weary
Carry God’s presence and wisdom into the home
War spiritually on his behalf, like God wars for us
This is not a weak design. It is a warrior’s design.
2. A Helper Who Covers — Not Controls
Being an ēzer does not mean:
Controlling your husband
Criticizing him when he fails
Acting superior or self-righteous
It means:
Praying when he is under attack
Encouraging when he feels inadequate
Speaking life when he hears only failure
Standing firm in faith when he can’t
Covering him — like God covers us
Submission is not silence, and helping is not weakness. It’s choosing to fight — but fighting for him, not against him.
3. Why Your Role Matters More Than You Know
Men carry a weight from God — the call to lead, protect, provide, and carry responsibility. But God never intended for him to do it alone. Eve was the answer to “It is not good for man to be alone.”
Without an ēzer:
His faith can grow tired
His vision can become blurred
His heart can grow isolated
With an ēzer:
His faith is strengthened
His purpose is sharpened
His heart is covered in prayer
Satan hates marriages like this — because a praying wife is dangerous.
4. Scriptures to Stand On
Here are key verses that reveal the power of a woman’s role:
Scripture
What It Shows About a Wife’s Role
Genesis 2:18
God created her as an ēzer — a strong ally.
Proverbs 31:12
She brings her husband good, not harm, all her days.
Proverbs 31:23
Her husband is respected — because of her influence.
1 Peter 3:7
She is a co-heir of grace — equal before God.
Ephesians 5:21–25
Marriage is mutual submission and sacrificial love.
Proverbs 31:25
“She is clothed with strength and dignity.”
5. A Prayer for Wives to Pray Over Their Husbands
Lord, thank You for the gift of my husband. Thank You for calling me to be his ēzer — his God-given ally, intercessor, and encourager. Today, I stand in prayer over his life. Cover his heart with Your peace. Strengthen his mind with Your truth. Protect him from the lies of the enemy and the weight of this world. Give me wisdom to speak life and love, not criticism. Teach me to fight for him on my knees — not with my words. Let our marriage reflect Your heart: unity, honor, strength, and grace. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
💛 Final Thought
You were never called to be silent or small — you were called to be essential. To stand beside, not behind. To cover, not control. To help — with the strength of the One who helps you.
This is the power of Eve. This is the calling of every woman who chooses to walk in God’s original design.
There’s a verse in the book of James that says, “Mercy triumphs over judgment” (James 2:13). Every time I read it, I’m reminded of the incredible mercy Jesus showed to us — the mercy that changed everything. He didn’t just forgive our sins in a moment; He forgave them for all time. His sacrifice on the cross was the ultimate act of mercy — not only covering our past, but securing our future in His grace. Because of that mercy, even when I fall, I know His forgiveness is already waiting for me. It doesn’t push me away in shame; it pulls me closer. His mercy gives me the confidence to run to Him, not from Him.
And that changes the way I see others too. If Jesus could show that kind of mercy toward me — complete, undeserved, and unconditional — how can I withhold mercy from someone else? It’s so easy to judge, to measure people by their mistakes or by what we think they deserve. But mercy reminds us that none of us stand where we do because we earned it. We are here because grace met us where judgment should have fallen.
When Jesus walked this earth, He never turned away the broken, the outcast, or the sinner. Instead of condemning, He restored. Instead of shaming, He lifted up. His mercy was not passive — it was powerful. It transformed lives. Every act of compassion Jesus showed was a reflection of the Father’s heart: mercy triumphing over judgment.
This verse also reminds me of another one: “Though the righteous fall seven times, they rise again” (Proverbs 24:16). That’s what grace looks like — not a license to fall, but the strength to rise. God’s grace doesn’t erase our humanity; it redeems it. It allows us to fall forward, not backward. Each stumble becomes an opportunity to encounter His mercy again.
And the truth is, even those of us who boldly declare, “God is good,” have only tasted a fraction of that goodness. His mercy is deeper, His grace is wider, and His love is far greater than we can ever comprehend. His goodness doesn’t just meet us at our best moments — it meets us right in the middle of our mess.
So today, let’s allow this truth to change how we see both God and others. If mercy triumphs over judgment in His heart, let it triumph in ours too. If His grace keeps lifting us every time we fall, then may we also be the kind of people who help others rise again.
Because the more we understand His mercy, the less room there is for judgment. And the more we see His goodness, the more we realize — we’ve barely begun to grasp just how goodHe really is.
There are moments in life when fear feels louder than faith—when circumstances seem so overwhelming that it’s hard to believe God is still working behind the scenes. This is my story of how the Lord led me from fear to freedom, from sickness to healing, and from striving to complete trust in Him. Through every painful season, He proved Himself faithful and showed me that true healing—spirit, soul, and body—was already won on the cross.
Just eight months after my mother passed away from colon cancer, I was diagnosed with a large, cancerous tumor at the end of my colon—the size of a baby’s head. It was an incredibly frightening time for me because I had watched my mother suffer through the final two years of her life as the disease spread throughout her body. I had cared for her and witnessed firsthand the pain she endured.
Of course, I was being prayed for and praying myself, but if I’m honest, my prayer was simply this: that God would spare me from experiencing the same agony my mother had gone through.
My mother had always said that she was believing for her healing, but because of incorrect teaching, she also struggled with identity issues and believed that God was punishing her with sickness to teach her a lesson for something she might have done wrong. While I would often tell her, “That’s not what God does,” that same lie still spoke louder in my own mind than the truth of believing for complete healing.
When I finally sat in the oncologist’s office to discuss treatment options, he looked at me and said that all the cancer had been removed along with the tumor. The great miracle was that God had contained the cancer entirely within that mass. I was completely cancer-free.
A Decade Later: Another Test of Faith
Fast forward ten years. After a very stressful season when my husband left me—and I had to manage the divorce on my own without a lawyer—I developed GERD. I underwent surgery to repair a hiatal hernia, but the operation only made the condition worse.
Just a month after the hernia operation, I had left my home country and moved to America to marry a man I didn’t really know well – a cause for a little more stress. I also now had limited access to medical care beyond over-the-counter medication.
Since the operation where they removed my tumor years earlier, I had also become dependent on sleeping pills to treat chronic insomnia. Even though I understood that my healing had already been accomplished through Jesus, I wasn’t seeing any breakthrough from the GERD or the insomnia.
A Turning Point
In January 2025, I attended a healing service hosted by Charis Bible College, where the Terradezes were speaking. A couple prayed for me there, but afterward, my GERD actually seemed to get worse.
Then, about three weeks ago, the Lord began to reveal the true root of what was going on. He showed me that I had been bound by a spirit of condemnation—formed over years of incorrect teaching and a distorted understanding of my identity in Christ. That condemnation had been blocking my healing.
I began taking communion every morning, and slowly, I started to feel an improvement in my symptoms.
The Lord showed me something powerful: when people receive a bad diagnosis and are prescribed medication, they take it faithfully every day—sometimes multiple times a day. He said to me, “If you would take medicine prescribed by a doctor, how much more should you take communion like medicine—to remind your body that healing has already been purchased for you on the cross.”
Learning to Trust the Process
God also reminded me of Mark 4:26–28:
“The kingdom of God is as if a man should scatter seed on the ground, and should sleep by night and rise by day, and the seed should sprout and grow, he himself does not know how. For the earth yields crops by itself: first the blade, then the head, after that the full grain in the head.”
Through this, He showed me that He was developing something I had always lacked—patience and deeper trust in Him.
As I continued taking communion daily and resting in His promises, I became completely free from GERD. I also no longer need sleeping tablets.
The Miracle of Complete Healing
Praise God! Not only has He healed me from cancer, GERD, and insomnia, but He has also taught me patience, peace, and an unshakable trust in our precious Lord Jesus.
Healing isn’t always instant—it’s often a journey of faith, trust, and surrender. But when we understand who we are in Christ and what He’s already done for us on the cross, freedom always follows.
Have you ever wondered why the Word seems to sometimes contradict itself? One moment we read Hebrews 13:5 telling us not to be obsessed with money and to be content with what we have, and then in 3 John 2 we’re told that God’s desire is that we prosper in all things and be in health. But instead of opposing ideas, these verses create a beautiful harmony that reveals God’s heart: He doesn’t want money to have us, yet He absolutely delights in pouring out His goodness and provision into our lives.
Picture Scripture as a grand symphony rather than a single note. When it speaks about money, prosperity, gratitude, and health, it isn’t contradicting itself. Instead, it plays a rich harmony that points our hearts to a Person: Jesus, the lavishly generous King who also frees us from the tyranny of chasing things that can never satisfy.
Here’s a perspective in a few melodic movements:
1.God is our source, not money
Scriptures like Hebrews 13:5 say,
“Keep your lives free from the love of money and be content with what you have”
because the love and obsession with money is like trying to drink sand: no matter how much you gulp, the thirst remains. The Word reminds us that our needs are met not by our anxieties or striving, but by a Father who says, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” His way means money becomes a tool rather than a master.
2. Contentment is rooted in relationship, not circumstances.
Contentment in the kingdom isn’t settling for less. It’s living from the revelation of WHO we already have. When you realize the King of the cosmos is your Abba, you can relax your shoulders and sigh with relief. Gratitude grows naturally when we see all things as gifts of grace, not achievements we must sustain by fear.
3. Prosperity is not greed; it’s overflow with purpose
Paul writes, “Beloved, I pray that you may prosper in all things and be in health, just as your soul prospers” (3 John 2). Grace-based teaching understands this as prosperity from the inside out. Where your soul is well-watered in God’s love, your life begins to bloom in every direction: emotional wellness, healthy relationships, joyful generosity, and yes, the practical means to bless others. Prosperity becomes a garden God cultivates, not a trophy we chase.
4. Grace invites us to receive, not strive
Jesus said in Matthew 6:33,
“Seek first the kingdom… and all these things will be added.”
He didn’t say “sweat and scramble.” God enjoys blessing His kids. But He doesn’t want the gift to replace the Giver. Grace (the Person of Jesus) removes fear and frees us to enjoy provision without being enslaved by it.
5. Overflow leads to generosity
Like a cup under a waterfall, God’s prosperity isn’t meant to be hoarded but shared. When Paul speaks of abundance, it often comes with the purpose ofgood works, generosity, and supporting the gospel(2 Corinthians 9:8). Heaven’s economy flows, it never clogs.
So the exquisite harmony found in God’s Word sounds something like this:
Be grateful for what you already have, know that your Father delights to care for you, and expect His goodness to overflow from your life, not as a god you pursue but as a blessing that follows you like a loyal puppy.
Contentment says you are already rich in Christ. Prosperity is merely your experience catching up to that truth.
Thank you for reading this. I would love to hear your thoughts. Let’s talk about it.
I just had a young lady confess that she has been stuck in a cycle of guilt and condemnation because she was abused at a young age. After that trauma, she was “taught” behaviors that led her down a painful road of addiction and lustful thinking. Her story broke my heart — not because of her sin, but because of the heavy shame she has carried for so long.
You see, she took the first step toward freedom from this bondage the moment she became vulnerable enough to speak it out loud. That moment of honesty is sacred — it’s where healing begins.
As Brené Brown teaches, “Shame needs three things to grow exponentially in our lives: secrecy, silence, and judgment.” When we hide in shame, it festers. When we speak out in truth, light floods in and darkness flees. But the enemy knows this — and he loves nothing more than to keep us trapped in cycles of guilt, self-condemnation, and mental torment.
The Bible gives us a clear strategy for breaking these cycles:
“We can demolish every deceptive fantasy that opposes God and break through every arrogant attitude that is raised up in defiance of the true knowledge of God. We capture, like prisoners of war, every thought and insist that it bow in obedience to the Anointed One.” — 2 Corinthians 10:5-6 (The Passion Translation)
This is where my personal struggle has always been — taking control of my thoughts. I allowed lies about my worth and my failures to rule my mind. I lived trapped in condemnation, rehearsing the same thoughts over and over, believing I was unworthy, unholy, and unloved.
But here’s the real truth that sets us free: You are not a sinner trying to become righteous. You are the righteousness of God in Christ Jesus.
“For God made the only one who did not know sin to become sin for us, so that we who did not know righteousness might become the righteousness of God through our union with Him.” — 2 Corinthians 5:21 (TPT)
You have a perfect spirit — born of God — living in an imperfect body. But that doesn’t mean you’re powerless. You’ve been given authority through Christ to take every thought captive, to silence the lies, and to walk in freedom.
So if you’re struggling in an area of shame — whether from something that happened to you or from something you’ve done — remind yourself who you truly are. You’re not defined by your mistakes, temptations, or struggles. You are defined by Jesus — His righteousness, His victory, and His love.
Let His truth speak louder than the enemy’s accusations. Freedom begins with vulnerability, but it’s sustained through renewed thinking — through seeing yourself as God already sees you: whole, righteous, and free.
And now, what you have to do is declare this over yourself — out loud. The Word says that our minds are renewed through the hearing of the Word, and your mind will hear it all the better when you’re the one saying it.
“So then faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the word of God.” — Romans 10:17 (NKJV)
Speak This Over Yourself:
“I am the righteousness of God in Christ Jesus. I have been set free from the power of sin and shame. I take every thought captive and make it obedient to Christ. My mind is renewed by the Word of God. I walk in freedom, in peace, and in the authority Jesus has given me. The enemy has no hold over my mind, my body, or my life. I am loved. I am chosen. I am whole. I am free — in Jesus’ name.”
Jesus healed me from colon cancer just eight months after my mom passed away from the same disease. When doctors discovered her cancer, the tumor was the size of a tennis ball. When they found mine, it was the size of a baby’s head—at least, that’s how the doctor described it.
I had watched my mom fight a long, painful two-year battle. She was a strong believer and often said she was “believing for her healing.” Yet privately, she would confess to me that she wasn’t sure what she had done wrong for God to give her cancer.
I told her, “Mom, God didn’t give you cancer.” But I also knew why her healing never came. She couldn’t bring herself to forgive—especially not my dad, who had hurt her deeply for years, nor certain family members she felt had wronged her. She had walked with the Lord for many years, but to her, forgiveness seemed too simple, almost unfair.
I believe this struggle came from wrong teaching about the love of God, from well-meaning but misguided preachers who had unintentionally planted distorted ideas. Coupled with a lifetime of rejection, those wrong beliefs kept her from stepping into the freedom Jesus had already provided.
I watched my mom fight desperately for her life, placing much of her hope in chemotherapy, even as her condition worsened and the cancer spread. To this day, I often say my mother didn’t die from cancer—she died from chemotherapy. I swore that if I ever got cancer, I would never go through it.
But my mother was determined to live for us, her children. She worried constantly that my father—who was notoriously bad with money—might remarry and squander everything she had worked so hard to provide. I was desperate for her to live too, because she was the glue that held our family together.
Growing up, our home life was often tense. My parents fought constantly—sometimes over the pressures of running the family business, but also because my father struggled with anger he couldn’t control.
When my mom became ill, my husband, our 10-year-old daughter, and I lived upstairs in their large house, while my parents stayed downstairs. My father had asked me to “come home” and help him run the business that my mom had mostly carried on her own. At first, she wasn’t happy about it—she didn’t want me drawn into the stress of life with my dad. But later, she told me how grateful she was to have me there to help care for her.
My father did what he could, but he was too entangled in his own demons and fears to ever make her the true priority she needed to be.
Words can’t truly capture what it’s like to watch your own mother die an agonizing death. At the time, I was also struggling in my marriage, and just like my mom, I found myself consumed by negative thoughts. Fear, worry, and unforgiveness kept me awake at night, making it hard to pray with any real faith.
When she finally took her last breath, I felt a wave of relief that her suffering was over. But almost instantly, I was overcome with guilt for feeling that way. My relationship with my father unraveled further after her death, as I carried bitterness toward him for the way he had treated her. Only later would I come to see that he, too, was battling unhealed wounds and demons that made it impossible for him to love her—or us—the way he wanted to. But at the time, all I could see was the pain.
Exactly one week after her memorial service, I felt a strange, dull ache on the right side of my belly. I dismissed it as indigestion, something I had struggled with all my life. Over the next eight months, the ache would come and go, sometimes intensifying into pain, but never lasting long enough for me to think it was serious.
Then came weeks of persistent diarrhea and rapid weight loss. Even then, I didn’t think much of it—even though these were the same signs my mother had ignored. I think I was in denial. Finally, I went to the doctor, assuming I had a bladder infection. She ran a urine test and then suggested a blood test “just to eliminate anything sinister.” I agreed, went on with my day, and didn’t even bother to pick up the bladder infection medication from the pharmacy.
The next morning when I arrived at my office, the night watchman rushed to my car. He said the doctor had called several times, urgently trying to reach me. I had my cell phone switched off and was running late, still oblivious to the seriousness of it all. I called her immediately, and she answered on the first ring: “Carol, you need to drop everything and either call an ambulance or get someone to drive you to the hospital right now.”
Tests revealed a massive tumor the size of a baby’s head lodged in my colon. Emergency surgery was the only option.
That was the beginning of a line of miracles. The surgeons removed the tumor along with 31 centimeters of my colon. The first miracle: I didn’t need a colostomy bag.
The surgery lasted several hours. I spent days in a high-care ward, fed through tubes, waiting for the biopsy results. The waiting was unbearable. Finally, my surgeon came to see me. I woke up to his kind face leaning over me, his hand gently holding mine. Knowing how recently I had lost my mother, he had tears in his eyes when he told me the tumor was cancerous. He tried to encourage me, but all I could hear were the words: “You have cancer.” They echoed endlessly in my mind.
The next miracle came in the form of a beautiful Christian nurse. As soon as the doctor left, she came and prayed with me, speaking healing scriptures over me. Fear and torment still plagued me, especially at night. Thoughts swirled: Who will take care of my little girl if I die? How will she cope? Will I suffer the same way my mom did? Sleep became impossible. Eventually, the doctor prescribed sleeping tablets, which helped, but deep down I wished I had been stronger at taking every thought captive to the truth—that by His stripes I was already healed, and I didn’t need to fear.
Still, God knew what I needed. That nurse was His gift to me, a messenger of His presence. And when I was moved to the general ward, He surrounded me with even more encouragement. Friends and members of my church family came daily to pray, to lift me up, and to remind me of God’s promises.
A week after I returned home, I had an appointment with the oncologist to discuss treatment. Now I was the one with cancer, and though I had always sworn I would never undergo chemotherapy, without the revelation yet that my healing was already complete, I considered it. All I could think about was my little girl, only ten years old. I was determined to fight for her sake.
But then came the miracle that changed everything. The oncologist looked at me and said they had removed every bit of cancer from my body with the surgery. I was cancer-free.
It took hours for the reality to sink in. Me? Cancer-free? It was a miracle I hadn’t even dared to hope for. God, in His mercy and grace—despite my doubts, fears, and unbelief—had completely healed me.
And I can tell you today: God is still in the miracle-working business. You just have to believe Him and His Word. He is faithful. He is true to it.
Everyone dreams of being famous, right? I did too—until my big break landed me on the front page of the newspaper… mid-scream, mid-fall, mid-catapult off a modelling ramp. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t exactly the glamorous headline I had in mind.
Picture this: I’m 15 years old, already a towering 6 feet tall. My poor mother was beside herself. She had visions of me spending my teenage years as a human beanpole, permanently hunched over trying to look “normal height.” Desperate to fix this, she tried ballet when I was about seven. That ended quickly. The ballet teacher took one look at me and basically said, “Sorry, kid, you’re too tall. Try basketball.”
So fast forward a few years, my friend signs up for a modelling course, and my mother jumps on it like it’s the answer to all our prayers. After all, she’d been a model in her youth and was convinced that modelling would magically transform me into a swan with perfect posture. She went on and on about how, in her day, “deportment” was everything. They literally balanced books on their heads, shoulders back, gliding gracefully down the catwalk like floating angels.
The 80s, however, were a different story. Our instructor didn’t hand out books to balance—she just told us to “turn here, smile there, walk like you’re not about to trip.” And for some reason, I was the only student who needed constant reminders to put my shoulders back. Every five seconds it was, “Carol, shoulders!” Maybe I had subconsciously started slumping out of sheer rebellion—or maybe I was just allergic to good posture. Either way, it drove me nuts.
And then there was my other “issue.” According to Shirley, our long-suffering instructor, I just could not, for the life of me, stop singing. Every time we walked to the music, I was basically Julie Andrews twirling through the Alps in The Sound of Music. Shirley would hiss at me like a furious librarian: “Carol! Mouth closed!” But honestly, how was I supposed to resist? A good beat deserved backup vocals.
After weeks of training (and rebukes), graduation night finally arrived. We had to strut three routines: beachwear, daywear, and evening wear. And here’s the kicker—we had to supply our own outfits. Since money was a bit tight, my mother dusted off a relic I didn’t even know she owned: a sewing machine. To this day, I suspect it had been hiding in a cupboard since the 1960s.
Let’s just say the results were… memorable.
First up: my beachwear outfit. A knickerbocker set. Yes, knickerbockers. Blue with white frills everywhere—neckline, sleeves, pant legs. Honestly, I looked like Little Lord Fauntleroy goes to Miami. But hey, I wore it with all the dignity a 15-year-old could muster.
Next came “daywear.” My mother had hacked a long dress pattern into a mini-dress with an uneven hemline. It was less “fashion” and more “DIY upholstery project gone rogue.” But compared to the knickerbockers, it was practically Chanel.
Finally, evening wear. My mother had run out of time and surrendered to reality, so she took me to Scott’s, the fancy dress shop in town. I scored a frilly white number that made me feel like Cindy Crawford on prom night. My confidence skyrocketed—I was owning that runway.
Until… disaster struck.
I was halfway through my final turn, absolutely basking in the glory of my moment, when I caught Shirley on the sidelines, gesturing wildly like she was landing a plane and mouthing the words:
“STOP. SINGING!!!!”
My heart sank. In my horror at committing the cardinal sin of the runway strut, I forgot the whole walking in heels part. Next thing I knew, I was airborne—catapulting sideways off the ramp (which, I swear, was a good three feet off the ground). I nearly flattened some poor dad in the front row.
And of course—that’s when the photographer snapped the shot. Me, mid-“silent” scream, arms flailing, ruffles flying. And where did this masterpiece end up? Smack on the front page of the local Northglen News. Not the society pages, not even the classifieds—the front page.
Really???
And so, that was my brush with fame—front-page glory, immortalized not as a glamorous model, but as the girl who sang her way right off the catwalk.
Moral of the story? Be careful what you wish for. Everyone wants their name in lights… I just didn’t realize mine would be in bold print under the headline: “Teen Model Takes a Tumble.”
Turns out fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be—sometimes it’s just a bruised knee and an even more bruised ego.
It was my friend Anne-Marie’s bridal shower, and I was officially on duty. She had called me earlier in the week with a rather desperate plea—please look after her at the shower. Now, this wasn’t your average “don’t let me spill wine on my dress” kind of request. No, Anne-Marie was about to enter the lion’s den.
She was marrying Richard, a lawyer in the shipping industry, much like herself. As an English barrister dealing with high-stakes shipping insurance, her stress levels were through the roof. In fact, both she and Richard had taken to calming drugs just to survive their relentless workloads. Add to that the monumental task of planning a wedding, and you had one very tightly wound bride-to-be.
Now, Richard’s family? Oh, they were ex-Rhodesians (from what was now Zimbabwe), and if I’d learned anything, it was this—these country folk could drink. And I don’t mean a casual “let’s sip some champagne” kind of drinking. No, they drank like it was an Olympic sport and they were going for gold.
To make matters even more interesting, Richard was a very large man. We’re talking “could probably bench press a small car” levels of big. Anne-Marie, on the other hand, was tiny. The contrast between them was both adorable and slightly comedic. But the real danger that night? Richard’s three sisters, who were hell-bent on making sure Anne-Marie was as slaughtered as humanly possible.
I had a bad feeling about this…
The evening began at a charming Italian restaurant in Durban’s social hotspot, Florida Road. It was a delightful night filled with laughter, conversation, watching Anne-Marie open gifts, and indulging in delicious Italian cuisine.
After dessert, I could sense the sisters were gearing up to take the evening to the next level. They started ordering shooters, enthusiastically insisting that Anne-Marie join in. She shot me a desperate look—a silent plea for an escape plan.
Thinking quickly, I loudly suggested we move the party to a nearby club where we could dance and drink at the same time. The group loved the idea, and we all agreed to meet at the entrance. My real plan, however, was to get Anne-Marie inside the club and steer her straight toward the exit—a strategy I executed flawlessly.
On the drive home, I had to pull over several times to let Anne-Marie recover from the effects of the alcohol she’d already had too much of. By the time we got back, we wasted no time changing into our pajamas and putting the kettle on for some much-needed coffee.
Just as we settled into the lounge with our steaming mugs, we noticed headlights in the driveway. Anne-Marie squinted at them, confused—until recognition dawned on her face. It was her soon-to-be brother-in-law, Richard’s best man.
The plan for the night was for Richard’s stag party to be held on the same evening as Anne-Marie’s bridal shower. Since heavy drinking was expected, Richard had arranged to stay at his brother-in-law’s place, as driving all the way to Umdloti Beach would be out of the question.
That’s why Anne-Marie was surprised to see his car in the driveway. Worried that something had happened, she rushed outside. As she reached the car, Richard’s brother-in-law stumbled out, swaying and slurring his words. “All Richard wanted was to come home,” he mumbled. We were too confused and shaken to even process how this man, in such a state of inebriation, had managed to survive the drive back to Umdloti Beach. The thought hit us only later—how easily he could have killed himself, or worse, taken the lives of innocent strangers on that winding coastal road.
Anne-Marie peered into the backseat and found Richard lying there, completely unresponsive. She opened the door and gently told him he was home and could get out now, but he didn’t move. Eventually, his brother-in-law had to climb into the car, grab him by the arms, and drag him out. Given Richard’s size, this was no easy feat, but after some effort, he stirred just enough to steady himself against the car.
Even in the dim light from the house, it was obvious—Richard was the drunkest man I had ever seen, and I had seen plenty! As the only sober person there, I suggested we get him to a bathroom to see if he would vomit. I had heard stories of people choking on their own vomit in their sleep, and I wasn’t about to let that happen.
With his arms draped over our shoulders, we half-carried, half-dragged him to the bathroom. He collapsed next to the toilet, rested his head on the seat, and shut his eyes as if ready to pass out again. That’s when I wondered—how exactly do you make a drunk man vomit? There was no way I was sticking my fingers down his throat.
We tried to keep him awake, hoping he would throw up on his own, but it quickly became clear that this was a losing battle. I then suggested we move him to bed—but on his stomach—so that if he did vomit, he wouldn’t choke.
Getting him off the bathroom floor was yet another ordeal, but eventually, we managed to lift him up and walk him a few unsteady steps to the bed. The moment we let go, he collapsed face-down, sprawled diagonally across the mattress. At least this way, I thought, if he did throw up, he wouldn’t ruin Anne-Marie’s entire bed.
We left him there and went back to the lounge, making a cup of coffee for his brother-in-law while we chatted, waiting for him to sober up enough to drive home. As we watched his tail lights disappear down the road, a sudden, thunderous crash shattered the silence. It came from the bedroom.
Heart pounding, we ran inside to find Richard sprawled on the floor, wedged between the bed and the large wooden side table he and Anne-Marie had bought in Bali and shipped home. We rushed to lift him, trying to rouse him, but this time, he wouldn’t wake up. If he had passed out again, there was no way we’d be able to get him back onto the bed.
We managed to shift him just enough so that his head rested against the wall, slightly elevated. In my mind, this was better than having him lie flat—at least if he vomited, he wouldn’t choke. It was a stiflingly hot evening, but Anne-Marie insisted on draping a light duvet over him. Then, exhausted and uneasy, she suggested we share the guest bed and let Richard sleep it off.
Neither of us slept well. I had a nightmare about a funeral and woke up at dawn, drenched in sweat. Anne-Marie was already awake, clutching her head, groggy from a hangover. She suggested we get up and make some tea. As I boiled the water, I suggested she take a glass of water to Richard. She agreed it was a good idea.
I listened as she walked into the bedroom, coaxing him awake. Moments later, just as I was about to pour the tea, she returned. Her face was pale.
“Something’s wrong with Richard,” she said, her voice unsteady. “He won’t wake up.”
Dread coiled in my stomach as I followed her to the bedroom. The moment I saw him, a wave of nausea hit me. The sight was horrifying—Richard was so lifeless, so still, that all the blood had drained to the lower half of his elevated face. The top half of his skin was an ashen gray, while the lower half was stained with dark, blood-red blotches.
I must have gasped, because Anne-Marie immediately panicked. She grabbed Richard’s body, shaking him violently. “Wake up! Wake up!” she screamed.
“Call an ambulance!” she shrieked, her voice raw with desperation.
We didn’t have 911 in South Africa, and for the life of me, I couldn’t remember the emergency number. My mind was spinning, my hands trembling. I could hear Anne-Marie sobbing, pleading with Richard’s lifeless body.
Panic swallowed me whole. I had never seen a dead body before, let alone someone I cared about. I needed to escape. I bolted for the door, fumbled with the lock, and wrenched it open. I ran through the garden, reaching for the gate, desperate to get away from the nightmare unfolding inside.
Then I heard Anne-Marie’s screams—raw, guttural wails that sent a fresh wave of terror through me. I turned and ran back into the house.
By the time I reached her, she was on the phone, shouting at the emergency operator. “He’s not breathing!” she cried. I realized she was in complete denial, frantically trying to save a man who was already gone.
The operator instructed her to check if something was lodged in his throat. With a wild desperation, she straddled his chest, clawing at his rigor-mortised lips, trying to pry them open. “I can’t!” she sobbed. “His mouth won’t open!”
The operator gave another command: “Lift his legs.”
Anne-Marie scrambled off him and turned to me, her eyes wild with urgency. “Lift his legs!” she ordered.
I hesitated. I wanted to scream at her, to make her see reason. But she was beyond logic. Her grief was madness, and I was powerless against it.
“LIFT HIS LEGS!” she screamed.
Shaking, I grabbed Richard’s ankles and lifted. His body moved like a stiff ironing board—rigid, unyielding, lifeless. Anne-Marie hurried to the suitcase she had been packing for their honeymoon—just a week away—and shoved it beneath his feet. Then she climbed back on top of him, still desperately trying to pry his mouth open.
Tears streamed down her face as she sobbed into the phone. “I still can’t see anything! He won’t breathe!”
That’s when I snapped.
“HE’S DEAD!!!” I screamed, my voice breaking under the weight of reality.
Anne-Marie collapsed into wails, her body shaking with grief. I yanked the phone from her trembling hands and told the operator, “Her fiancé is dead. I’m sure of it.”
The voice on the other end was calm, gentle. “An ambulance and the police are on their way. Please stay on the line.”
Then there was a knock at the door. For a brief moment, I thought it was the emergency responders—but it was the neighbor, drawn by the screams. His face fell when I told him the news. He went into the bedroom, gently pulled Anne-Marie off the corpse of the man she loved, and led her to the lounge.
I followed, gripping the phone like a lifeline, thankful for any excuse not to go back into that room.
The whole time, one thought gnawed at me—this was my fault. My worst fear had come true. Richard had drowned in his own vomit, and I had failed to save him.
And that’s how I stayed for the better part of the day—frozen on the couch, gripping Anne-Marie’s hand as though letting go might make it all more real.
The neighbor took charge, asking for the numbers of Richard’s family. I listened numbly as he made the calls, his voice hushed but steady, breaking the worst news anyone could deliver.
We sat in a daze until the first car pulled into the driveway. The moment Anne-Marie saw them, she tore from the house, wailing with such raw grief that I thought my heart might shatter. This was surreal—like watching a nightmare play out while trapped inside it.
Richard’s sisters and their husbands hurried past me, eyes glazed with shock, and went straight to the bedroom where he lay lifeless on the floor. They took Anne-Marie with them, and the sounds that followed—deep, animal sobs, choked gasps, desperate whispers of his name—were almost too much to bear.
Eventually, they came out, pale and trembling, ready to whisk Anne-Marie away. But the police had arrived, and she had to give her statement before she could leave.
I was asked to stay behind, to recount what had happened to the emergency workers and later to the police. Reliving that horror, again and again, felt like some twisted form of punishment. Dark thoughts clawed at me: Was this my fault? Should I have done more to keep him from choking? Would they blame me? Prosecute me?
After Anne-Marie had sobbed out her broken, stumbling account of the night, Richard’s family insisted on taking her home. She needed clothes—we were both still in our pajamas. One of his sisters turned to me, her face red and swollen, and asked if I could get some clothes from Anne-Marie’s cupboard.
I wanted to scream, to run out of that house and never look back. The idea of stepping back into that room—where the weight of death lingered, suffocating—made my skin crawl. But I couldn’t refuse. So, with my heart pounding in my ears, I forced myself down the hall.
I kept my eyes locked on the cupboard, refusing to glance at the bed or the cold, still body beside it. The suitcase she’d used to prop up his feet was lying near the open wardrobe. I dragged it over and swept handfuls of clothes inside—anything I could reach—then dug for some underwear with shaking hands.
I backed out of the room as quickly as I could, gripping the suitcase like a lifeline. The atmosphere in there was indescribable, as if the very walls had soaked in death and despair.
When I stepped into the lounge again, Anne-Marie was clutching Richard’s sister, her sobs quieter but no less heartbreaking. I handed over the suitcase and stood there, hollow, not knowing where to look or what to feel—only that I would never forget the way that room had felt, thick with the memory of a life suddenly and brutally cut short.
By around 3 p.m., I was finally told I could leave. The house still swarmed with police, as if it had become a crime scene. In many ways, it had.
I threw on the clothes from the night before, eager to escape the suffocating weight of tragedy, and slipped out as quickly as I could. The drive home was a blur, my mind heavy with the grief of my poor friend, who had just lost the love of her life. A deep, aching loneliness settled over me. I felt broken.
Several weeks after the funeral—held on what should have been Richard and Anne-Marie’s wedding day—I received a call from their next-door neighbor, who, by an odd coincidence, was also a doctor. That Saturday morning, I had confessed to him my deepest fear: that Richard had died because of me, that I had failed him while he drowned in his own vomit. Now, he was calling to share the coroner’s report. Richard had suffered an enormous coronary, one so catastrophic that not even seven heart surgeons working together could have saved him. The combination of alcohol and antidepressants had triggered it.
Hearing this brought a strange relief—I hadn’t failed him; there had been nothing I could have done. But that relief was quickly overshadowed by a chilling realization: when he fell off the bed, it wasn’t just a collapse—it was a testament to the sheer force of the coronary, strong enough to lift a comatose man who had been lying diagonally across the mattress and hurl him to the floor. Every desperate effort I had made to lift him, to keep him upright, had been an attempt to move a body already claimed by death. The weight of that thought, of having tried in vain to save a life that could not be saved, sank into me like a stone.
That night etched into me a truth I could never shake: alcohol and stress are a deadly partnership. Richard’s death was not only about how much he drank; it was about the weight he had been carrying long before the first glass was poured. Both he and Anne-Marie were professionals stretched so thin by their careers that they lived on calming medication just to keep going. Their wedding, which should have been a joy, had become one more layer of expectation pressing them down. In that state, alcohol was not harmless fun—it was fuel on an already raging fire.
I had always thought of drinking as a way to let off steam, to loosen up when life felt too tight. But what I saw that night forced me to confront a darker reality: when stress has already weakened the body and frayed the mind, alcohol does not relax—it destabilizes. It numbs awareness, dulls instinct, and steals the body’s last line of defense. Richard wasn’t the first person to use alcohol as an escape, but he was the first in my world whose escape became permanent.
It left me with a lingering question I carried for years: how many of us live in the same cycle—too stressed to cope, too desperate not to find some way out—and how close are we, without even knowing it, to the same edge? Stress will always demand an outlet. The world offers alcohol, pills, distractions, and busyness, but they are only shadows of relief. They cover pain for a moment, but they never heal it.
What I’ve since learned is that there is a healthier outlet, one that doesn’t mask or destroy but restores. It is a life anchored in Jesus Christ. In Him, the pressure of this world does not crush, and the weight of stress finds release. Where alcohol numbs for a night, His presence gives peace that endures. Where the world offers escape, He offers rest. Richard’s story became a sobering reminder to me that the only true refuge from stress isn’t found in a bottle, but in the arms of the One who promised, “Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
How well do you travel? Everyone has their secret weapon. Some people swear by knocking back a few glasses of wine with dinner so they can snooze through the turbulence. Personally, I’ve never fancied arriving at my destination with a hangover and raccoon eyes, so I’ve always struggled to sleep on flights. Add to that the fact that I’m six feet tall, and “economy class comfort” is basically an oxymoron.
Just three weeks into wedded bliss, Dave and I were already proving our vows by testing the limits of “in sickness and in jet lag.” Off we flew to San Francisco—our flights generously paid for by our future “benefactor”, Mr. Smith, who clearly thought we’d enjoy the scenic route, complete with multiple pitstops.
By the time we dragged ourselves into Frankfurt Airport, we looked like extras from The Walking Dead—and still had a 12-hour flight to San Francisco ahead of us. Since both of us are over six feet tall, airplane sleep is a cruel myth. We started wondering how to score some sleeping tablets. Not exactly the honeymoon souvenir we had in mind, but desperate times.
Neither of us had ever touched a sleeping pill—Dave is a medication skeptic of the highest order. But after about 36 hours without sleep, he looked ready to sell his kidneys if it meant a nap. So, off we went pill-hunting.
Frankfurt Airport is basically a mall with airplanes attached, so eventually we stumbled on what looked like a pharmacy. We searched every shelf like wannabe drug mules, but no luck. Finally, Dave tried to explain to the shop assistant what we needed. Her English was iffy, so Dave, in his infinite wisdom, switched to Afrikaans. Shockingly, that worked better (who knew Frankfurt had a secret Afrikaans fan club?). She waved us toward a tiny square window at the back, where an unimpressed man appeared.
Dave repeated our sob story. The man rolled his eyes and snapped, “I don’t understand that language. Speak English.” (So much for the Afrikaans connection.) After a brief moment of suspense where we thought he’d ghost us entirely, he reappeared with a small plastic bag containing one lonely blue pill. His instructions: cut it in half, pop it 30 minutes before the flight, enjoy dinner, then drift off into dreamland.
Perfect. Except that when the 30-minute mark rolled around, we found ourselves crouched in a corner like two nervous teenagers trying to hide from our parents while cutting contraband. Honestly, it looked like we were divvying up cocaine. But Dave, steady-handed as a surgeon, split it into two immaculate halves. Down the hatch they went.
Seconds later, the intercom buzzed: “Bing bong bing… Flight 343 to San Francisco has been delayed two hours.” TWO HOURS. The look we gave each other could’ve won us an Oscar. Half a pill down, no refund policy.
What happened next? Absolutely nothing. At least nothing we remember.
We woke up 12 hours later to flight attendants shaking us like maracas. Apparently, while the rest of the plane filed out, Dave and I were still snuggled together at the front of economy (not our seats, by the way), seatbelts fastened, looking like a pair of mannequins on display.
I staggered off the plane feeling like I’d emerged from a medically induced coma. Dizzy, dazed, and with two attractive dry streaks of spit decorating my chin. Romantic honeymoon vibes, right?
To this day, I don’t know what that mystery pill was—but I’m 73% sure it was a roofie. Because honestly, what else can knock out two six-footers for 12 hours straight, unless Lufthansa secretly employs Sleeping Beauty’s fairy godmother?
If Jackie was disappointed in my failure to snag Larry as my dream husband, she didn’t let on. Instead, she shifted gears with military precision, employing a new tactic: advertising me like some foreign exchange prize cow to every tall, available student in her class.
Shockingly, this actually worked. She managed to wrangle one chap into agreeing to a double date with her and her husband — which, to be fair, was probably just as much about her escaping diapers and textbooks for a night of fun as it was about helping me find everlasting love.
We met at some pub in the Tampa Bay area. The moment I was introduced to Nameless Guy, I caught a flicker of disappointment in his eyes — the kind you see when someone realizes their “mystery blind date” is less Scarlett Johansson and more awkward South African import with a dodgy perm. To make matters worse, he was clearly a few years younger than me. Good-looking, yes — but in that way late-twenties men are when they still have a wide selection of hot blondes queuing up at their feet.
I spent the evening sinking further and further into my wine glass, feeling like this was yet another lost opportunity in the ever-growing graveyard of my love life. Jackie didn’t bother pushing the match any further — his body language was practically screaming, “Abort mission!”
A few weeks later, Jackie’s husband came home with a new “opportunity”: apparently, one of the officers at the local penitentiary where he worked was interested in taking me out. That’s right. I had now officially reached the level of being pimped out to random corrections officers. My romantic prospects were no longer dazzling or exotic — they were, quite literally, prison-adjacent.
At this point, I began to wonder if I should just take holy orders and become a nun.
Of course, I couldn’t refuse, and this time Jackie had clearly abandoned any hope of transforming me into a siren. “Officer Fino” arrived around 5:30. It was still hot as hell—easily in the 100s—and I’m pretty sure you could hear my heart tumble down the stairs when we stood watching him step out of the car.
He was a large man with a round, tomato-red face, topped with what looked like a fiery orange Brillo pad trimmed into a military buzz cut. Jackie’s husband was grinning at me—not mocking, not teasing, just wearing the earnest look of a Labrador proudly delivering a dead pigeon to your feet. Meanwhile, Officer Fino’s car appeared to be held together with duct tape, prayer, and possibly a misplaced dream.
So out I went, teetering in my lead-lined shoes, to meet Officer Fino in the driveway, already composing the letter I’d write to myself later: Dear Diary, never trust a man whose vehicle looks like it moonlights as a science experiment.
Out I went, dragging my concrete shoes across the driveway like a prisoner on death row. Officer Fino extended a damp-looking hand, which I shook with all the enthusiasm of a woman about to be marched into a swamp. Up close, his face was even redder, as though he’d been slow-roasted under the Texas sun for the past decade, and the orange buzz-cut gave him the air of a traffic cone brought to life.
He grinned, revealing a set of teeth that suggested a long and meaningful relationship with Mountain Dew, and launched straight into small talk about how “it ain’t usually this hot this time of year.” I tried to laugh politely, but it came out as more of a strangled gasp, like someone who’s just been stabbed in the back but doesn’t want to make a fuss.
Behind me, I could hear Jackie’s husband cheering me on silently with his face pressed against the window, like a proud parent watching a toddler’s first school play.
So there I was, in 100 degrees, nodding along to a man who looked like he could double as a road hazard sign, trying to convince myself that this was all perfectly normal.
He drove me to a diner that looked like it had been constructed out of spare parts from a swamp boat. The kind of place where mosquitoes pay rent and the neon sign flickers just enough to remind you that electricity is optional.
Inside, it was clear they hadn’t spent a single dime on décor—unless you count the framed photo of an alligator wrestling competition as “art.” The menu was basically a love letter to fried things. Definitely no kale smoothies or artisan salads here. In fact, if you’d even whispered the word “salad,” I’m fairly sure someone would have thrown hushpuppies at you.
Naturally, wine was not on offer. I was forced into beer, which I despise, and did my best to sip it without gagging. (Honestly, beer tastes to me like someone rinsed a loaf of bread and strained it through a gym sock, but apparently everyone here thinks it’s nectar of the gods.)
My date, bless him, was a perfectly pleasant fellow, but as he launched into tales of his upbringing in some rednecked part of the country, I found myself smiling and nodding while not understanding half of what he was saying. His drawl was so thick it was practically another language. I caught “huntin’,” “catfishin’,” and possibly “grandma’s possum stew,” but the rest was lost in translation.
Officer Fino drank quite a lot of beer. To the point where I began nervously calculating the odds of survival on the drive home (and let’s just say, they weren’t in my favor). His car, held together by duct tape and blind faith, meant I wouldn’t be able to drive it myself, even if I dared.
When he suggested a walk down to the river, I thought it might be a good way to let him sober up—plus, bonus points, fresh air. Unfortunately, “fresh air” in Florida at night is like stepping into a sauna someone forgot to switch off.
We reached the river’s edge and, to my amazement, there were actual manatees floating about—like giant gray marshmallows drifting dreamily in the water. Magical, really.
But the magic ended abruptly when my skin suddenly burst into flames. Well, not literal flames, but close. Every exposed inch felt like it was being set upon by invisible needles. He casually informed me it was the “no-see-ums.” Apparently, that’s local slang for “demonic sand-sized vampires with wings.” They may be tiny, but their bite lingers for weeks. Weeks!
So there I stood: watching gentle sea cows glide by in twilight serenity while simultaneously being eaten alive. Florida romance, ladies and gentlemen.
Needless to say, poor Jackie’s husband had to invent some diplomatic excuse for why I wouldn’t be meeting Officer Fino again. At this point, I was starting to feel like a full-time burden on both my cousins. I could almost see them silently coming to terms with why I was still single.
But there was one last matchmaking attempt left in them. Jackie’s husband had a single cousin—Chris—who, conveniently, was “just dropping by for a visit.” I wasn’t sure if my presence was the actual reason Chris suddenly appeared, but Jackie and her husband had done a dazzling job of selling him to me. He was wealthy, he was good-looking, and that was more than enough for me to perk up.
By the time the day rolled around, I’d put on something short and cheeky, fully reverting to my old “strategy” of distraction—which is really just attraction in a mini-skirt. At that point, I was convinced my only hope of winning someone over was with my legs, because I had zero confidence in my face or my personality.
He walked in and, inside, I was practically breakdancing with joy—if breakdancing were something one did silently while holding a wine glass. He was exactly what I’d pictured in an American husband: polite, charming, and oozing that “boy-next-door who could also fix your car” energy. We started with small talk, graduated to dinner, and then—because apparently I was auditioning for the role of “all-American beer girl”—I gamely swigged lager as though I hadn’t once choked on a shandy in 1985. Music got louder, voices followed, and before long we were belting out songs in the key of “slightly drunk enthusiasm.”
He was cool with me at first, which sent my insecurities into overdrive. But as the bottles emptied, his attention warmed. Of course, I couldn’t help wondering if I was truly irresistible… or just a blurry figure being magically upgraded by hops and barley. Regardless, the night ended with me shamefully sneaking into the guest room reserved for him.
By morning, the spell had well and truly snapped. The man who had been all smiles and choruses hours before was suddenly operating at witness-protection-level avoidance. He packed up, muttered a few perfunctory words, and left me standing there with the grim realisation that my fragile self-esteem had just been punted headfirst into the nearest toilet bowl.
By this stage, I’d been in America for just over seven months, and honestly, the whole thing had turned into less “romantic adventure” and more “one long episode of me versus my own terrible decisions”. I was so pathetically unhappy that I sat down and wrote an Oscar-worthy tragedy of a letter to my parents, apologising for being a terrible child since birth. (Think: me, aged six, sulking through piano lessons = obvious proof I was destined for ruin.)
Naturally, my parents were horrified. Within days, the phone rang and their message was clear: “Sweetheart, put an end to this doomed husband-hunting expedition and come home immediately.” Which I did—packing my bags at record-breaking speed, like some sort of defeated contestant being voted off Love Island.
One week later, I was back in South Africa, mission failed, spirit crushed, ego resembling roadkill. My grand dream of finding an American husband had dissolved entirely, leaving me with nothing but a jet lag hangover, a stack of embarrassing diary entries, and the sinking suspicion that I was destined to be the cautionary tale at future family dinners.
–o0o–
For those of you who’ve read these stories, you might think I was being really unfair to the men who tried, in their own way, to date me. And you’d be right. I was unkind—not just to them, but most of all to myself.
That’s how I ended up in the ridiculous position of leaving behind my entire life in South Africa to come to America in search of a husband. Who does that? Someone who doesn’t believe they are enough on their own. Someone who is so desperate for love outside of themselves that they forget it has to start within.
The truth is, there was never much hope of me seeing the good in anyone else when I couldn’t recognize the good in myself. When you judge others only on appearance, while ignoring the depth of their character, it’s not really about them—it’s about the mirror you’re holding up to your own self-loathing.
The bottom line is that I had been living outside of the Kingdom of God for so long that my entire identity was rooted in the world’s standards. Success, appearance, relationships—these were the things I believed defined my worth. So when I first arrived at Jennifer’s and started going back to church, it felt torturous. My perspective of God the Father was so twisted that I couldn’t grasp His love.
I was the proverbial prodigal child, but the truth is, I wasn’t even at the pig pen yet—I was still making my way there. And for years, that’s exactly where I lived: in the pig pen of self-loathing, striving, and broken choices. You’ll read more about that in the chapters to come.
This is the real reason my search for a husband in America was such a complete failure. I wasn’t ready, because I hadn’t yet returned to the only One who could restore my heart. My Heavenly Father wasn’t just waiting for me to come home—He was the home I had been searching for all along.
Tales from the Tangled Trail 