The Love That Led Us Home

When I first met Elijah, I never expected him to be the one who would lead me to God.

He was loud, rough around the edges, and angry at everything — especially himself. I was quiet, insecure, and constantly apologizing for taking up space.

But somehow, we found each other.

It started with a verse.

I remember we were sitting on the hood of his car after a long night of communion — the stars above us, our pain between us, and Jesus in the very midst of us.

“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” I whispered, leaning into Elijah's broad shoulders. I sighed. The good fight of faith was too much for me to comprehend at the time. Wrestling matches with the devil and demons. Believing that Jesus was right here beside me at all times even when life got a little real.

Elijah nodded and met his calloused fingers with my soft ones. Goosebumps rose on my shoulders from the feel of his touch. “I used to think God just watched me mess up and waited to punish me. Then I read this: ‘The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.’”

I looked at him like he was quoting a poem. God truly is a poet. His words fill your soul and inspire you. Riddles and parables.

Elijah grinned. “Psalm 34:18. Hit me like a punch in the chest.”

~~~~

I remember Elijah and I started reading Scripture together.

He came to church with me. I helped him breathe through his outbursts instead of breaking things. He prayed with me when I confessed how worthless I felt.

He taught me that I was lovable.

I taught him how to slow down.

We healed together. We laughed. We cried.

We even created life.

~~~~

Our son was born in the spring.

We named him Asa — Hebrew for healer.

It felt prophetic.

But healing doesn’t always end in happily-ever-after.

The truth is… we couldn’t make it work.

He needed more quiet than I could give.

I needed more reassurance than he could offer.

We started arguing more — it started with shouting, then silence. The kind that creeps in between people who still love each other, but no longer fit. Endless nights praying. We just couldn't be equally yoked anymore. Something was off. One of us was going in the opposite direction of what the others calling was.

So we did the hardest thing: we let go.

Not in anger. Not in bitterness.

In grace.

We chose to co-parent.

To stay rooted in faith.

To forgive each other for what we couldn’t be. And I thought it was for the best. I thought maybe we were meant just for a season. We never married, so maybe God was angry with us for bearing fruit from a rotting tree?

~~~~

People ask me all the time if it was a failure.

I say no.

He was the one who led me to Jesus. That was the only calling God truly has for any of us.

And I was the one who softened his fists and pointed him to peace.

We weren’t meant to stay lovers.

We were meant to be witnesses — of what love looks like when it gives, when it grows, and when it lets go.

~~~~

Last week, we stood together in the front row of Asa’s dedication service. Elijah held him while I wiped tears from my face.

The pastor smiled and said,

“Sometimes God gives us people for a season, but what He builds in that season lasts forever.”

And I knew deep down —

we had something better than a fairy tale.

We had fruit.

We had faith.

We had forgiveness.

I won’t lie and say it didn’t hurt.

Some nights, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if we gave up too soon. I’d trace the cracks in the drywall like a map of all the places my heart had split. I missed the comfort of his warmth beside me, the way he would grip my hand during worship like we were both hanging on to something unseen. I missed the little things — the sound of his boots by the door, the half-empty coffee cup he always left in the microwave.

But missing someone doesn’t always mean you’re meant to have them back.

Sometimes, love teaches you what to keep and what to surrender.

And God — well, God started teaching me how to be whole again.

I remember one night, Asa was crying, and I was overwhelmed. I hadn’t slept in two days. My hair was a mess. The house looked like a war zone. And for a moment, I wished Elijah were still there, just to hand me a diaper or take over for a minute.

But instead, I stood there, exhausted, bouncing Asa in my arms, whispering scripture like lullabies. I remember saying:

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil... You are with me... You comfort me...”

And in that moment, something holy wrapped around me — not Elijah, not another person, but the Presence that stays when others go.

God.

He comforted me in the silence. And not long after, I realized — maybe Elijah had been a vessel, but God was the Source. Maybe I had been relying on the gift and not the Giver.

That realization didn’t make the pain disappear. But it gave it purpose.

Elijah and I became better parents apart than we ever were together. We started scheduling our handoffs around church services. On Sundays, Asa saw both his parents lifting their hands in praise, even if we stood on opposite sides of the room. And slowly, I started trusting God not just with my heartbreak, but with my future.

I started journaling again. Started reading the Word not to fix someone else — but to heal myself. I found myself in the pages of Scripture. The woman at the well. The bleeding woman. Mary Magdalene. All of them broken, misunderstood, and seen.

That’s what Elijah did for me, once. He saw me.

But now… God saw me.

And I finally saw myself.

I stopped apologizing for taking up space.

I started smiling again. Not the kind that hides pain, but the kind that rises from a well of peace. I began making time for long walks with Asa, thanking God for every breath, every breeze, every baby giggle.

Healing didn’t come all at once. It came in layers.

Through late-night prayers.

Through hard conversations.

Through learning to say “no” when I used to shrink and say “yes.”

And through watching Elijah become a better man — not for me, but for our son. That’s one of the most humbling things: watching someone grow and realizing their growth was never meant to benefit you the way you thought it would.

We still fight sometimes. We’re not perfect co-parents. We argue about pick-up times, bedtime routines, and who left the car seat in whose trunk. But then Asa laughs, and it melts the tension away.

Love didn’t die. It just changed form.

And that’s something I’ve learned about God too — His love doesn’t always come the way we expect. It comes as a whisper in the chaos. As a comfort in the night. As a broken man on a cross who turned His pain into our peace.

Sometimes, I wonder what will happen if Elijah falls in love again. Or if I do.

Would it hurt? Would it feel like betrayal?

Maybe.

But I also believe that true love releases, not restricts. That when you really care about someone, you want them to become who God called them to be — even if that journey takes them away from you.

I want Elijah to find peace, to be cherished, to have someone who prays over him the way I once did. And I want that for myself too.

But I’m not in a rush.

Because I’ve finally found something I never had before: contentment.

Not the shallow kind that depends on circumstances. But the deep, soul-rooted kind that says, “Even here, even now, even after everything — God is still good.”

Asa is growing fast. His curls are wild and free, just like his spirit. He laughs easily, sleeps curled up like a kitten, and has Elijah’s eyes and my smile. He is the best parts of both of us, without the burdens we once carried.

And every time I look at him, I’m reminded that God doesn’t waste anything.

Not even heartbreak.

Not even the relationships that didn’t last.

Not even the nights you cried alone wondering if God was listening.

He was.

He always was.

And if you’re reading this — still waiting, still hurting, still unsure what’s next — I want you to know something I learned the hard way:

You are not forgotten. You are not too far gone. You are not disqualified by your mistakes or your mess.

You are seen.

Just like I was. Just like Elijah was.

And when God writes your story, it won’t always look like the fairytales. It might be messy, it might ache, it might take turns you didn’t plan — but it will be holy.

Because He is in it.

And that makes all the difference.

So here I am now — a single mom, a co-parent, a daughter of the King — not because I earned it, not because I did everything right, but because God is faithful, even when we are not.

And I’ll keep telling this story — our story — not because it ended the way I wanted, but because it revealed the love I needed.

Jesus.

The One Elijah pointed me to, even if he didn’t realize that was his assignment.

The One who picked up all the broken pieces and didn’t throw them away — He built something new out of them.

Something sacred.

Something strong.

Something eternal.

Not a marriage.

Not a fairytale.

But a testimony.

And that — that’s better than a happy ending.

That’s redemption.