The Hayride

I’m not really sure when I put on the mask.

Maybe it was the day I said “I do.”

I met my first husband in church. I thought I was doing the right thing…marrying a man who loved God.

But something inside me knew, even before I walked down that aisle, that something wasn’t right. I should’ve trusted that feeling when I initially gave the engagement ring back.

It didn’t take long before the accusations started—who I looked at, what I wore, where I went.

I could bend over at church to pick up a pacifier and somehow that meant I was flirting with someone’s husband.

I started shrinking, watching every word and every move, afraid of what would be said next.

So I learned to smile through it.

I poured myself into ministry and made sure everything looked perfect from the outside. I thought if I just served more, prayed harder, and kept the peace, things would get better.

But they didn’t. 

The truth is, I was dying inside and didn’t even know it.

By the summer of 2016, I was drained…spiritually, emotionally, completely. I had spent so long pretending that I didn’t even remember who I really was.

Then came the day Harold asked me and the kids if we wanted to go on a hayride.

I told him it wasn’t a good day—I’d been crying and didn’t want to pretend anymore. At that time, I didn’t even know what emotional abuse really was, I just knew I was tired.

But Harold said, “Just bring the kids. We’ll pick some pears.”

He had the trailer hooked up to the tractor, and me and the kids climbed on the back. I’ll never forget sitting on that hay bale when the tears started to fall…and then, the rain did too.

It was as if God Himself was washing it all away…the years of hiding, the fear,  the shame, the mask I had worn for so long.

For that moment, I smiled. 

My worries were gone.

We picked pears in the rain, and I laughed with my little ones and Harold.

And in that simple, quiet moment…I felt free.