This story is about two wounded hearts that were healed and restored, then melted into one–in an instant. This is a true love tale.

Divorce is painful for anyone who has grown up in a shattered household. My parents split when I was twenty-seven years old, and while some people believe that adults shouldn't be impacted by such things, I can guarantee you that I WAS! When my parents divorced, I was taken aback. 

In the natural world, I had no forewarning. But, on the day my father informed my mother that he was leaving, I was filled with such dread that I told my husband, "Something is dreadfully wrong in California." I'd want to call home.” You can imagine how strongly I was affected, given that I was three thousand miles away, on a lonely island in Northern Canada, when I felt this fear.

As I struggled to “understand” what had happened–what right did he have to abandon my mother?–pain and uncertainty became frequent companions. 

Whose criteria was he basing his decision to leave her on? What had she done to offend him so much that he could no longer live with her? I had a lot of questions, and I questioned almost everyone I could think of. I posed the same questions to God, and in doing so, I discovered that my own life was in shambles. As my relationship with God improved, I began searching the Bible for "the solution" to all of my questions regarding my father. I was confident that, as a former Baptist minister, he would know and obey what the Bible stated concerning such an important topic.

When the entire family reassembled in California two years after the divorce–for one of those BIG attempts at reconciliation–I was confident that dad would listen to God's Word. “Dad, look at what God has to say about what you're doing,” I said, reaching for my Bible. He stood up and cursed me, the Bible, and the entire family before I could discover the carefully selected chapter of scripture that would clear this mess up. He then walked away. We were all stunned, to say the least. That curse stayed with me for a long time–eighteen years for me, and twenty years for my brother and sister.

Eighteen years is a significant amount of time. Consider that for a moment. Graduation from high school usually takes eighteen years. In eighteen years, a "lifetime" of events takes place. During those years, I had very little touch with my father. A birthday card from him, Christmas cards, and the occasional phone call all aggravated the sorrow. Someone would hear about something he was doing, and he'd be the subject of our talk for weeks again. My mother couldn't get enough of him. She would never abandon him.

Throughout our lengthy and traumatic separation, my mother maintained her relationship with God. She read her Bible, attended church, was concerned about us children, and adored her grandchildren. She worked as a secretary and saved her money so that when she retired, she wouldn't be a burden to anyone. But she was always preoccupied with talking about my father.

Most of our conversations about him were, in my opinion, judgmental. We had read our Bibles, after all, and we knew what he had done was wicked. She had done nothing in the Bible that would justify a divorce. We knew he wasn't going back to her by the time of his third marriage. Nonetheless, his activities and their impact on our lives were a common topic of discussion.

I had given up hope that my father would ever be reunited with his family after so many years. I questioned he was a Christian at all. He struck me as a completely lost, immoral, unstable, and nasty individual. That was a pretty dark period in my life. I grew accustomed to the darkness in my own spirit, and it became normal.

Mother did retire, and she relocated to Canada to be closer to my family. She had missed a lot of my five children's childhood and wanted to learn more about them. She purchased a condo two blocks from my home, and the kids loved having “Gran” so close. She was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's disease a year after she moved here.

Lou Gehrig's sickness was a terminal illness. There was no way to reverse it. There was no treatment available. I prayed for four months and asked God to cure my mum. Finally, the response came: “Assist her in dying.” I accepted her diagnosis and did everything in my power to assist her.

I wish I could tell you that I was a "good little Christian" who praised and thanked God for His just judgments every day, but the truth is that I questioned God. I thought it was unjust of Him to let my father walk free when he was the one who had done such a terrible thing to his family, and to let my mother die such a horrible death. “How do You perceive this situation?” I finally asked God. The answer He gave to my heart would change all of our lives one day.

I felt something stirring inside of me about a year after my mother died–a desire to see my father. I had only invited him to visit my home once during our eighteen-year separation, and during that time I had tried–and failed–to confront him with the Bible. I had no reason to believe that a second visit would result in a different outcome, but I went ahead and honored his wish by inviting him to spend the weekend with me.

My father arrived with a slew of justifications of his own. He was well aware of what to expect from me. I didn't have anything specific in mind to confront him about–I didn't need to; I had a long list of crimes at my disposal. As a result, the weekend went on–awkwardly but silently.

I had no notion Spirit was going to unleash a devastating attack on us. For lunch, I simply invited two guy friends. They led a prayer group at which I participated, and I suppose I hoped they would say something meaningful to my father. 

If not, it was a means for others to meet my father and see the guy who had caused me so much pain. We were seated at my dining room table when one of the gentlemen began telling us about a young soldier in Napoleon's army who had gone missing, been apprehended, and was about to face the firing squad. 

The mother of this young man approached Napoleon and appealed for her son's release. “He doesn't deserve mercy,” Napoleon answered. “But, Sir, if he deserved it, it wouldn't be mercy!” the mother pleaded. Napoleon then permitted the boy to survive. “I have no idea why I told that story,” the gentleman replied after telling the anecdote. It just occurred to me.”

I felt a peculiar sensation of heat rush over my head and into my chest as he was speaking. “I understand why you told that story,” I remarked flatly. “Dad, when mum was dying, I felt that God was being terribly unfair,” I murmured softly to my father. So I inquired about His thoughts on the problem. Would you like to know God's thoughts about you and your mother?” The space was deafeningly quiet. I could see my father was terrified of finding out. However, after a few moments, he said he would.

“He said, I couldn't heal your mother because she wouldn't forgive,” I felt the fire rise as I delved deep into my soul for those words. But I see your father's heart wounds and feel sorry for him.” 

The force of Spirit struck both of us "like lightning" when I spoke those words. We got to our feet, pushed our chairs away from the table, and sobbed into one other's arms. We sat down again after a long period of crying and kissing–even the two gentlemen present were crying–and I realized I couldn't recall any of the crimes on my "list." The entire list was obliterated from my memory–and it is still missing five years later! (10 years later, as well.)

My father and I have had a connection that goes way beyond "reconciliation" or "healing" since that day. This is the first time we've ever had a relationship like this! This is a brand-new relationship for both of us! Every weekend, we communicate on the phone, we schedule trips around significant holidays, and we attend conferences together. My father, who had previously been blocked to the "things of the Spirit" as a result of my own judgmentalism and legalism, is now eager for more of the Spirit. My father began having intense nightmares that he KNEW were from God almost immediately. He tells me about his dreams, and we talk about what they could represent.

My father reconciled with my brother and sister two years after that historic day. My family and I took a trip to California for a true "family reunion." The divorce had been twenty years in the making.

When my father and I get together, we try to find an occasion to tell our tale. It's a story that gives hope to relationships that seem hopeless. It's a story about true love.