I sit tonight at a probably 10-foot long table alone, along a wall in Starbucks, because when I got here, it was the only available table near an outlet. I haven’t plugged my computer in yet, distracted so far by the patrons to my right.
A stepmother and adult stepdaughters. They sip seasonal beverages and discuss the family’s patriarch. Who they suspect is involved in infidelity. Who has been unfaithful before. Who isn’t happy.
“I can’t say I’m in it for the long haul,” stepmother warned. Stepdaughters understood. I understand, too.
This — a real life representation of relationships at nearly their worst (It could be still worse.) — hurts my heart. And my soul. And my head. This is why I write what I write.
Not solely because marriages disintegrate, but because marriages still start that are going to disintegrate. Because marriages that are going to disintegrate don’t actually have to start. I write what I write because love is far greater, harder, and more worth it than our culture says it is, and somebody has to say it.
When I write it is with the hope and prayer that readers who are married receive whatever they need to start to build or reinforce a marriage’s foundation. With the hope and prayer that readers who are single and mingling receive what they need to discern when to stop or start a relationship.
With the hope and prayer that readers who discern marriage with someone don’t get married if disintegration is likely, or an option. With the hope and prayer that readers who are single for good will know that it doesn’t mean that life for them is loveless.
And your prayers while I find the words are appreciated.