Her tearless story was like too many stories I’ve heard. Another rocky marriage. And she barely in her twenties. She refused to tell her mother because it would make her worry.
We munched on market olives, tossing the pits into the ravine over our shoulders.
She shrugged. “What can I do? All marriages are like this.”
“But they don’t have to be!” I protested.
She agreed to let me pray for her. And we talked about making the first step to be the change.
I didn’t pretend to have the solution. “Only God can change hearts.”
“North Africans have black hearts!”
“Why? When you’re supposed to be good Muslims? Why do you say that Christians are the ones who do good and Muslims have black hearts?”
She was shaking her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Some things just needed to be accepted.
In the end, she went her way and I went mine. It ached to know that our lives had touched and she still walked away broken. But I am helpless to heal, to fix, or to fill. Her broken life is in God’s hands, awaiting joyful redemption.
My Thoughts From Afar | 