Looking back, it’s incredible to see just how monumental this moment was. At the time, it felt like the end—but in reality, it was the beginning. God was ordering our steps, even though everything felt like it was falling apart, not coming together. But that’s what He does, isn’t it? He allows the breaking so He can begin the molding. And we were in desperate need of becoming something new.

This post is about the final moments of our marriage—but not the kind that ends in divorce. It was a different kind of ending—a death that made room for something new to live. We didn’t realize it then, but God was beginning something powerful on that very day. A year later, we would get it. And now, we’re so deeply grateful that those final moments took place.

Something had to die in order for something greater to rise—a resurrection far beyond what we had imagined. Sound familiar? This is what God does when we fully surrender—when we allow Him to do what only He can do. It doesn’t always look like this, but for us, it was the only way forward. The only way through.

This was the final breaking that made room for our greatest breakthrough.

The Final Breaking Point

The girls and I had been staying at my parents’ house for a couple of weeks.

My communication with Ryan was nearly nonexistent. He barely reached out, and I rarely responded. To me, that was the sign—I didn’t think he was willing to fight for his family. After all, his words and actions had been saying that for years.

My heart grew even colder toward him, full of resentment over the choices he had made—the choices I believed led us here. He had ignored my cries for change. And by this point, I couldn’t even recognize my own faults, just as he couldn’t see his.

I had been meeting weekly with my counselor, who consistently told me that separation needed to happen.

“But what if he comes over after work each day so the girls don’t really notice he is gone?”
“No,” he replied.
“What if he stayed in the extra bedroom?”
“No.”
“What if—?”
“Andrea,” he interrupted, “do you want a change to occur or not?”
“I want a change. I need a change. We cannot survive where things are headed,” I said, defeated and panicked.
“Then you have to let this crisis do its work,” he said gently. “Trust God to do what He needs to do in both of your lives. He will make a way where there is no way.”

But I was scared.

“Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” -Isaiah 41:10

Hearing God

It was Sunday. My parents invited me to church, but I declined. I didn’t want to face the “Where’s Ryan?” questions.

“I think it will help you, Andrea,” my mom urged.

“No, Mom. I’m not going.”

I wasn’t ready for my failures to be seen—not yet. Still, I told them I’d watch a sermon online to ease their concern.

After they left, I decided to work out while watching the message. My girls were playing in another room, so it felt like a good moment to clear my head. I chose a random sermon on YouTube and began doing lunges.

The pastor was scattered and a bit quirky. I found him hard to follow and slightly annoying—but for some reason, I couldn’t turn it off. He was preaching from Joshua 3, a passage I had heard many times.

It’s the story of the Israelites preparing to cross the Jordan River into the Promised Land. God tells Joshua to have the priests carry the Ark of the Covenant and step into the river. As soon as their feet touch the water, the river miraculously parts, and the people cross on dry ground.

¹⁵ Now the Jordan is at flood stage all during harvest. Yet as soon as the priests who carried the ark reached the Jordan and their feet touched the water’s edge, ¹⁶ the water from upstream stopped flowing. It piled up in a heap a great distance away, at a town called Adam in the vicinity of Zarethan, while the water flowing down to the Sea of the Arabah (that is, the Dead Sea) was completely cut off. So the people crossed over opposite Jericho. ¹⁷ The priests who carried the ark of the covenant of the Lord stopped in the middle of the Jordan and stood on dry ground, while all Israel passed by until the whole nation had completed the crossing on dry ground.” -Joshua 3:15-17

The message didn’t seem relevant—until suddenly, it did.

The pastor stopped mid-sermon, looked straight into the camera, and I heard it—not from him, but deep within me:
“You can’t stay here.”

It didn’t make sense in the natural, but I knew those words were for me. I collapsed to the floor and wept.

You can’t stay here.
You can’t stay in this cycle of hurt.
You can’t stay in your depression.
You can’t stay in distrust.
You can’t stay here.

The Vision

As I wept, I was suddenly swept into a vision.

I stood at the edge of the Jordan River, looking beaten down, confused, and tormented by the enemy. A fast-moving river rushed before me, but I could see light on the other side. I knew—deep in my spirit—that God’s promise was on the other side, but I had to step out in faith.

When I took the first step, the water parted beneath my feet. Dry ground.
But then I had to take another step…
And another…
Each time I stepped, the waters parted only beneath that step. Never more. I had to trust again and again, one step at a time.

When the vision ended, the words echoed through my mind:
You can’t stay here. You can’t stay here. You can’t stay here.

I sobbed harder than I ever had. In that moment, I knew what God was asking:
Take the step. Trust Me to do what only I can do.

Take the step. Trust Me to do what only I can do.

Four Hours Later…

A few hours later, I sat in the passenger seat of my van while my dad drove. I was heading to meet Ryan, but my dad insisted on driving me most of the way there. For most of 45-minute ride, no one said a word—except once.

“You okay, kiddo?” my dad asked.

“I will be okay when this is all over,” I said. I didn’t realize then that I was prophesying over my own life.

I closed my eyes and listened to worship music. One song rose up in my spirit: The Blessing by Elevation Church.
I listened to it on repeat:

May His favor be upon you
And a thousand generations
And your family and your children
And their children, and their children…

I wasn’t worried about myself—I was worried about my girls. But as I listened, peace slowly settled over me. I began to believe that not only would we be okay—we might actually be better. Somehow, I felt like this wouldn’t destroy them. It would bless them.

I didn’t know what the road ahead looked like, but I trusted God. He was all I had left and He was up to something.

The Meet-Up

I told Ryan to meet me at a neutral location—our home felt too personal.

I had dropped my dad off at my sister’s house without saying much. My sister offered to pray, but I declined. I didn’t want to cry—I wanted to hold on to my strength. And somehow, I had it—just enough to carry me through the moment. There was a grace on me I couldn’t explain.

As I drove to the location, I just kept praying and praying and praying that He would give me the strength to do what He was calling me to do.

I parked, and Ryan joined me in my van.

Ryan greeted me with a grim expression. He understood the weight of the moment, yet came prepared to plead for a different outcome. Deep down, I sensed he already knew what was coming—but he showed up ready anyway. He began by reading from a tiny sticky note filled with promises—words I had heard before but had never seen fulfilled.

I’ll stop drinking…

I’ll put you first…

I will pursue God again…

I will be our spirtual leader…

I will pursue you again…

I’ll be a better dad…

I’ll make better choices…

I’ll prioritize this family…

I barely listened. It wasn’t out of disrespect. It was out of sheer focus. My eyes drifted to the trees outside. I was holding back tears, trying to stay focused on what I needed to say.

When he finished, I turned to him and said, “I think it’s best if you move out.”

“To all who mourn he will give a crown of beauty for ashes,a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair. In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks that the Lord has planted for his own glory.” (Isaiah 61:3).

His reaction was immediate—anger, accusations, and words designed to tear down my confidence. And honestly, I couldn’t blame him. Had the roles been reversed, I might’ve done the same.

But Ryan was no longer my strength. He wasn’t my protector, my guide, or my shield. The truth is, he had never fully filled those roles—and that was part of why we ended up here.
But something had shifted in me. And because of that, the words meant to wound me no longer held power.

I needed a new love.
A new guide.
A new strength.
I needed God.

“I’ll give you the rest of the week to gather your things,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm inside me.

“Why are you doing this?” he yelled.

“Because we don’t have any other choice,” I replied calmly. “We can’t keep living in this place where we keep hurting each other. We can’t stay here.”

And with that, I asked him to leave.
But truthfully, it was only the official moment—because he had left long before. Emotionally. Spiritually.
We both had.
We had drifted from our marriage long before anything was spoken out loud.
Now, it was time to see if our paths would ever cross again.
But I wasn’t holding my breath. I had learned my lesson—my hope was no longer in Ryan.
My hope was in the Lord.

It was a monumental moment—one that felt like our entire future was shattering right then and there.
And in many ways, it was.
The life we once knew was over.
That version of us was gone.

And there was no changing my mind.
I knew I had heard God.
There was a promise waiting on the other side of this pain—and I was going after it.

And the very moment I was the most broken…
…was also the moment my healing began.