journal, and began to write.
Just who is Allison Marie Knight Kavanagh?
It’s embarrassing to reach the age of 45 and not have a quick and easy answer to the question. As a child, I was the beloved daughter and pesky little sister. In my twenties and thirties I was a wife and mother.
But somewhere along the way, I think I lost track of me.
No, not somewhere. It happened when I tried to become Tony’s savior instead of his wife. I wasn’t very good at that. I tried to be his rock. Wasn’t good at that either. When did I start believing that was the role God wanted me to play in our marriage? When did I become so desperate to hold all the tattered pieces together instead of learning to trust, instead of leaning into Jesus?
A good Christian isn’t supposed to get divorced. That’s what people say. That’s what I’ve always believed. And yet here I am. Divorced. Maybe I’m not a good Christian.
Even as she wrote the last sentences, she knew they were wrong. Not that she wasn’t supposed to live in obedience to God, but that she was supposed to live under grace rather than by her works. The gospel itself wasn’t complicated, but sometimes being a disciple of Christ was. Following rules, she’d found, was—or seemed to be—easier than walking by faith and listening to the Spirit. So much easier to believe that if she did X Y Z, then A B C would happen.
Just who is Allison Marie Knight Kavanagh today? I need to find out. I need God to reveal my identity to me.
And what about that conversation everyone had on Thanksgiving? The one about thanking God for hard things in our lives. God walked with me after Tony left and He was there when I was grieving over my failed marriage. He was there even when I didn’t talk to Him or acknowledge Him. But am I grateful for what He taught me in those horrible months? Is it possible not to want to be divorced and yet be able to thank God in the midst of it? Or even for it? I think it must be. The Bible says so. But how do I learn to do it?
Allison laid down the pen and rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. Introspection wasn’t easy or particularly fun. But if it would draw her closer to God, she wanted to keep going. She picked up the pen again.
When I moved into Aunt Emma’s house, I felt far from the Lord. It isn’t that way anymore. But I don’t want to settle for just knowing He is near. I can’t put into words what I do want, but I don’t want only the status quo. Savior and Lord. Jesus wants to be both in my life. I don’t doubt I’m saved and going to heaven. But have I let Him be Lord over every area of my life?
An uncomfortable question. Perhaps one too many for this first attempt at putting her feelings on paper. She set down the pen a second time and rose from her chair. Full darkness had arrived while she was at the table in the kitchen, and although it was still early—not even six thirty—she was ready to turn in.
Emma
1928
Alexander rolled his truck off the road on a cold February night. He was taken to the hospital where a doctor set his broken left leg and stitched the wounds under his right eye and on both arms. He was in a bed in one of the wards by the time Emma arrived, her heart pumping with fear.
It shamed her, the relief she felt when she saw him in that narrow hospital bed with his leg in a cast and his eyes closed. Not because he would be all right, given time to heal, but because, for at least a few weeks, he would be immobile. In her mind that was a good thing, despite the lost income. He would be in less danger from the law—and from the men he worked for—as long as he was confined to their home.
She moved to the side of the bed and touched his shoulder. “Alexander?”
He opened his eyes.
“I came as soon as I heard.” She sank onto a metal chair. “The nurse told me you won’t be able to work for six weeks but that you’ll make a full recovery as long as you do as you’re told.”
His cheek twitched, a telltale sign of
Just who is Allison Marie Knight Kavanagh?
It’s embarrassing to reach the age of 45 and not have a quick and easy answer to the question. As a child, I was the beloved daughter and pesky little sister. In my twenties and thirties I was a wife and mother.
But somewhere along the way, I think I lost track of me.
No, not somewhere. It happened when I tried to become Tony’s savior instead of his wife. I wasn’t very good at that. I tried to be his rock. Wasn’t good at that either. When did I start believing that was the role God wanted me to play in our marriage? When did I become so desperate to hold all the tattered pieces together instead of learning to trust, instead of leaning into Jesus?
A good Christian isn’t supposed to get divorced. That’s what people say. That’s what I’ve always believed. And yet here I am. Divorced. Maybe I’m not a good Christian.
Even as she wrote the last sentences, she knew they were wrong. Not that she wasn’t supposed to live in obedience to God, but that she was supposed to live under grace rather than by her works. The gospel itself wasn’t complicated, but sometimes being a disciple of Christ was. Following rules, she’d found, was—or seemed to be—easier than walking by faith and listening to the Spirit. So much easier to believe that if she did X Y Z, then A B C would happen.
Just who is Allison Marie Knight Kavanagh today? I need to find out. I need God to reveal my identity to me.
And what about that conversation everyone had on Thanksgiving? The one about thanking God for hard things in our lives. God walked with me after Tony left and He was there when I was grieving over my failed marriage. He was there even when I didn’t talk to Him or acknowledge Him. But am I grateful for what He taught me in those horrible months? Is it possible not to want to be divorced and yet be able to thank God in the midst of it? Or even for it? I think it must be. The Bible says so. But how do I learn to do it?
Allison laid down the pen and rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. Introspection wasn’t easy or particularly fun. But if it would draw her closer to God, she wanted to keep going. She picked up the pen again.
When I moved into Aunt Emma’s house, I felt far from the Lord. It isn’t that way anymore. But I don’t want to settle for just knowing He is near. I can’t put into words what I do want, but I don’t want only the status quo. Savior and Lord. Jesus wants to be both in my life. I don’t doubt I’m saved and going to heaven. But have I let Him be Lord over every area of my life?
An uncomfortable question. Perhaps one too many for this first attempt at putting her feelings on paper. She set down the pen a second time and rose from her chair. Full darkness had arrived while she was at the table in the kitchen, and although it was still early—not even six thirty—she was ready to turn in.
Emma
1928
Alexander rolled his truck off the road on a cold February night. He was taken to the hospital where a doctor set his broken left leg and stitched the wounds under his right eye and on both arms. He was in a bed in one of the wards by the time Emma arrived, her heart pumping with fear.
It shamed her, the relief she felt when she saw him in that narrow hospital bed with his leg in a cast and his eyes closed. Not because he would be all right, given time to heal, but because, for at least a few weeks, he would be immobile. In her mind that was a good thing, despite the lost income. He would be in less danger from the law—and from the men he worked for—as long as he was confined to their home.
She moved to the side of the bed and touched his shoulder. “Alexander?”
He opened his eyes.
“I came as soon as I heard.” She sank onto a metal chair. “The nurse told me you won’t be able to work for six weeks but that you’ll make a full recovery as long as you do as you’re told.”
His cheek twitched, a telltale sign of
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