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I realized the dramatic exit I had made earlier that day had not worked in my favor as I hung up the telephone receiver in a sheer panic. My baby girl lay sleeping soundly next to me in a cheap motel room somewhere in Nevada where I was in the process of learning the true definition of the word "alone." I had been making a brave attempt to navigate through treacherous waters as my on-going saga had continued into months. From my perspective I had good reason to question if my storm could be survivable.
I had flown to California from Arkansas in a last ditch effort to save my marriage with the excuse of retrieving a car that my then-husband had said I could have if I wanted to come and get it. I believed in my heart that if I could lure him out of his environment, I just might have a chance.
It was October of 1982 when we were pastoring a church in Elkins, Arkansas. He left for a three week revival and to my horror informed me shortly afterward that he would not be coming home. In disbelief I bought some time by telling our members that his revival was going on, then it went on and on. When I had to finally "fess up" I found a church congregation that to my surprise responded like Christians should, in love. They continued to support me and gave me a roof over my head for as long as they possibly could.
My mother was driving down from Joplin, Missouri to do what she could to help with my eight-month old baby and cover us in prayer. On two occasions she had described a moment when the Lord had spoken to her as she sat Kimberly down. Both times she told me, "I said to the baby, "sit here", then He spoke, "Until I make your enemies your footstool." I’ll never forget thinking, "Let me know when you figure that one out ‘cause I’m busy, I’m in a crisis here."
I was a young mother who had depended on my mother all my life to get the mind of God for me. The essence of my prayer would often be, "God, listen to Mother." Now I was walking in a place she could not go for me. I had to take a crash course in how to hear from Him myself and now I was being presented with a pop quiz in a motel room in Nevada.
I thought I had been successful in convincing him to come home with me to at least properly resign the church, but things had gone terribly wrong. I packed up my baby girl and headed home alone. Later that evening my heart was beating out of my chest as I dialed his number to plead for one last consideration. . . this was my last chance.
Divorce was the ultimate defeat in the world I grew up in. I had been raised believing that to put the words "divorce" and "ministry" in the same sentence made it an oxymoron. Should you be divorced, you are no longer of any value to God.
I was in a daze the day we eloped in April of 1980, a young, naive child-like minded girl that loved the Lord and wanted to count somehow in someway for Him. But my self-image and insecurities had prompted me to jump on the first boat headed the way I wanted to go. My folks had been in the ministry all my life and it was the only existence I knew. For that reason I also knew what would be whispered behind the back of those who had ended up in a failed marriage. In my mind, my life was over if I could not pull some kind of rabbit out of the hat and make this work.
My fingers were trembling as I dialed his number that night. My heart sank when I heard the tone in his voice. Unfortunately, there had been another turn of events and my strategy had failed. I began to eat the crow whole. I begged and offered an unthinkable, unrealistic deal. I told him I would secretly live down the street and allow him to live any way he wanted, whatever it took to not live with the stigma of divorced. He was cold, distant and firm, insisting the marriage was over.
I turned off the light and crawled in bed beside my sleeping baby while my thoughts were racing out of control. My nerves felt raw and exposed. This was a level of desperation that was new to me. I had to think of something. . .quick!
I reached through the darkness and found the faithful Gideon Bible on the stand next to the bed. I clutched it with one hand and felt my way across the room with the other. When I found a switch, I took a moment to consider something drastic. I held the Bible open and fixed my eyes toward it in the dark. Before turning on the light, I had a little chat with God. I spoke out loud and asked Him if He were ever going to speak personally to me, let it be now. I wasn’t my Mother and I knew He knew it. But this time I had to hear from Him for myself. It was now or never.
My finger flipped the switch and my eyes focused in on the passage of scripture before me. . . there it was! "Sit at my right hand until I make your enemies your footstool." I exhaled a sigh of relief and knew I had just experienced a life defining moment, it was official. . . I had now heard from God for myself!
I immediately began a plan of action. I lay awake through the rest of the night trying figure out the basics. . . where would His right hand be? "Which direction is He facing?" I asked myself. "Where exactly am I to sit?" "Do I remain seated in silence, or turn to Him and beg?" Then I reviewed all my options. I could move to California and stock him, I could go to Missouri and hide behind my mothers spiritual skirt tail or remain alone in uncertainty in Arkansas. By dawn I had decided the safest thing would be to stay put. The theory of, "When you don’t know what to do. . . do nothing," kicked in.
I moved out of the parsonage to a house a few miles down the road that my dad had rented for me. The next few months are a blur, but that dreaded day indeed came one hot August morning. A tap on the door pierced the silence then a kind young man handed me the "envelope of demise." I was still caught off guard when the heading of an obvious legal document read, "Dissolution Of Marriage." Within days after the divorce was final it grieved me to learn he had quickly remarried. It was a church wedding, of which I had been denied.
I hung my head in shame, crawled back home to Joplin and kicked into full-blown survival mode. That is where my story really begins.
For the next ten years I experienced a gamut of emotions that would all be rooted in the rejection I felt from the church. I began to isolate myself as a back-up plan, just incase I didn’t "make it." I vividly remember sitting in a rocking chair considering the option of going insane. I rationalized that my name would eventually fade from the memory of those who stood in judgment of me and they may never know I was living out my days in a mental facility. Immediately another thought bombarded my head, "When I do make it, they will all know!"
I had many survival strategies during those years, all of which were designed to carve out my own walk with God. My tactics ranged from smothering in a prayer closet on a regular basis to seeking Him at the crack of dawn. I referred to my Bible as medication and kept one within reach at all times. When I would feel a wave of rage or despair sweep over me, I would reach for my medicine. I didn’t care if it said, "Saul begat Saul Jr." I would drink in the Word, take a deep breath and lay my head back waiting for it to take effect.
I would pace the kitchen floor late into the night weeping. With the Word cradled firmly in my arms as I bent forward and tracked my bare feet through a trail of tears. There were weeks that I fasted more than I ate. Somewhere in it all I located the right hand of God.
In 1994 through a chain of bizarre events, I nervously walked in the door of a Pentecostal Church of God church in Joplin, Missouri. I had struggled with the decision but for specific reasons felt I had to give it a chance. After a few uncomfortable moments I made an observation that this would not be a permanent situation. But soon things began to change and the biggest change took place in me.
Over twenty years had passed since my original plan took its unexpected turn. I married David Walker in 1996 and my daughter married a Pentecostal Church of God minister in 2004. We had built relationships with so may Pentecostal Church of God ministers. It felt like a natural progression to take out license with the same organization where it had all begun.
I read the requirements and did my workbooks. I collected all the necessary letters of recommendation and jumped through all the hoops. I amazed myself when I walked straight to the drawer where I had stored the original divorce papers I received that August morning. They indeed showed my name as the Respondent, thus proving who divorced who. But the moment became a solemn one when I noticed the smears and smudges they still bore and recalled when I had fell to the floor laying my face upon them to bitterly weep as they had officially documented the genesis of my unraveling life.
A few weeks later I met with the Southwest Missouri District Board and shared with them the role that the Pentecostal Church of God had played in my life. Several years before I had gotten a revelation and realized that had it not have been for the stand they had taken against divorce, I may never have found my place in God. The day my divorce became final I was thrown into the same pit with every divorcee whose name had been filed at any given court house. No one had any way of knowing how stable I was. For all they knew I was poised in a position to wonder in and out of marriages for the rest of my life. It was my responsibility to lock into my walk with God. It was up to me to prove myself and show my calling was sure. Ironically, by that time, I didn’t need a card in my wallet to tell me I was fit for ministry. I knew who I was in God.
In June of 2005 my husband and I sat among the constituency at the Pentecostal Church of God Convention in Dallas, Texas. The subject of allowing a divorcee to obtain license who had been the Petitioner due to spousal abuse was being discussed. An avalanche of memories began to cascade through my mind as I placed myself in the shoes of every victim whose stories were relayed. I remembered well the helplessness I felt when I was overcome with desire to funnel my song back into the darkest crevice of the deepest cave where lay a brokenhearted abandoned mother. I had Hope to offer and was keenly aware that the ones spoken of that day had something to offer too.
Again I had to concede that no one has any guarantee that a victim may or may not find themselves on a repetitive path of going in and out of abusive marriages. Grant it, they may have committed justifiable homicide and been welcomed with open arms. But divorcing them has caused them to wear what may feel equivalent to a scarlet letter. The system doesn’t seem fair, but based on the interpretation of scripture by "the powers that be" at this time, it’s all we have.
The amendment was defeated and insult was no doubt added to injury for those who were deeply wounded to begin with. I found myself desperately longing to minister to those who were hurting and extend to you a hand of fellowship as I remind you that your gift will truly make room for you. You have been in a place that I have never seen. I have never had the shame of hiding burses that were inflicted by the very one who had vowed to love and protect me. You are in a unique position of ministry where you can look into the hollow eyes of the abused and tell them that you know how they feel. Your ministry is of great value to the Kingdom. Promotion does not come from the East or the West, but it’s God who puts down one and rises up another.
You can rest assured that when your day has come and you have risen from the ashes of your life. I will be the first to waltz passed the ministries of those who have lived "picture perfect" lives. Those who have packaged themselves complete with a fluffy bow on top. I will seek you out knowing full well that your anointing has broken the yoke.
I love to hear a good story of survival, and I can’t wait to hear yours!
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