For the first two decades of my marriage, I was what you might call a church widow. I sat in the pews alone every Sunday because my husband, Mark, refused to come with me.
Mark was a believer. He was raised in church and insisted that our kids go. Yet somehow, every Sunday, he found an excuse not to come with us.
“Got a huge stack of papers to grade,” he’d say. We were both schoolteachers.
“I need to fix that sink.”“Lawn needs mowing.”
We lived on an old farm in the small Georgia town where Mark grew up. There were always more chores. Mark never ran out of excuses.
I, however, ran out of patience. I nagged Mark. Pleaded. Prodded. Told him how disappointed I was.
Mostly I just felt sad about this rift in our marriage. Embarrassed too. There’s no place like a church to make you feel self-conscious about how your family doesn’t conform to other people’s expectations. I wouldcongregation asked, “Where’s Mark?”
