I put a new sweater on and it helps temporarily but within minutes, the newness fades and I begin to feel the same again, same ole same ole and nothing in me has changed. I wonder why I continually put my hope in a sweater. 

All morning, forgiveness has been on my mind. Forgive and then forgive again. Wake up and forgive a thousand more times. I want to and I try but my sweater tells me my attempts are not working and I’m continually face to face with the harsh reality of my life. My marriage is dying and I believe my husband is having an affair of sorts; whatever “of sorts” is, it is evident that his heart is no longer in our home. 

We began to reach an all time low two years ago but we pushed through because of business, because of kids. We’ve gotten used to the facade and have perfected how to make things look and lateley, he has stopped putting on a show and has stopped showing up altogether. He doesn’t pretend anymore. But I do. Me in my sweater pretends I can hold it all together and I wear it to try to fill in the empty places and fix the problem pieces but my attempts are futile. I woke up this morning and my plan was to show up to church with a big smile and good answers but inside, I feel ratty and torn and fake in my new sweater. 

My fixes are no longer fixing. 

Writing all this makes me feel courageous and brave. That it is real instead of just one more thing in my marriage that gets swept under the rug and not talked about. I say it here becuase maybe Jesus will hear me becuase He’s not hearing me any other place so it seems. Maybe if it’s all written out in black and white, He’ll hear my heart and give strength to endure and try again when I want to quit. Maybe this is a cry for help, for another human being, even one I don’t know, to sit in my space with me so I don’t feel quite so alone. 

Writing may not help me just as new sweaters cannot fix me. I feel my skin itch underneath it and long for it to be soft and more tender. I want it to envelope me whole and hold me tight but it just scratchy and fake. 

Becuase that is how it feels. 

Life, like my sweater, feels much like that. 

All the flags are waving and I’d be remiss not to notice them. I resolve to talk to him whenever he comes home. 

“Prepare your heart.”

It is all that I hear.