Yesterday was my 15th wedding anniversary. Not our. My. We are divorced, he is remarried. According to my church I am still married, because in my church divorce is a human construct that doesn’t really exist in God’s world, and if I want to get married again, I have to prove to my church that I was never really married in the first place. Not in a legal way, in a spiritual way. I have to prove that while there was a wedding, there wasn’t a marriage.
It’s called an annulment and is not too hard to get, although it certainly sounds intimidating. It involves gathering evidence and making a written report about what happened. It’s based on the condition of both people at the time they took their vows, not about what happened afterward.
That’s good, because after I took my vows I had three children with this man, and built a home and a life with him. That’s a marriage by most people’s definition.
I got married because he asked. I got married because I believed God wanted me to. I got married because I believed it was meant to be. I still do. My three children are my proof.
But “meant to be” is not the same as “meant to last.” The God who called me into this marriage was the God who called Jesus to the cross, and He was the God who called me out of it. I believe the divorce was meant to be. And meant to last. My former husband’s baby boy is my proof, and as I watch him grow from every-other-weekend drop-offs, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that my God works in mysterious, painful, beautiful ways.