Finding Love After Heartbreak and Divorce

Thirty-nine was the age when I would have everything put together: marriage, kids and a secure home. Not really. But that's where I ended up living – in a small apartment downtown and spending weekends with my seven-year-old daughter while on my last legs of existence and addicted to photos of vibrant lives on social media.

Three years ago, I was a worship leader, married and father of kids, as well as the type of person who constantly told people, "God has a plan". Then came the affair. Not mine. Hers. We tried counselling. I tried denial. But a marriage can't survive on just hope; by the time she filed for divorce, she was occupying another man's condo.<<

I assured myself it would be fine eventually. But the silence was brutal. I was almost a stranger to myself – just this father who flashed a broad smile at his daughter's school drop-off, trying to tell everyone that he was okay. My guitar just lay there untouched and locked away in a case. I didn't sing. I didn't pray much, either.

Then, just as the rest of what God does, she became visible unexpectedly.

Her name was Elisa, and she was a purchasing manager at the nonprofit where I now worked part-time. She was the opposite of me—a composed person through whom nothing dripped, who liked thick books with dog ears in the pages. She was the first person I ran across when the alarm went off. I was reaching for my badge, pretending to have stopped any coffee from reaching my trousers. She handed me a napkin and shrugged "Mondays are tough".

I smiled. It was a real smile. That was the first genuine smile I've had in a while.

We found that we knew some coworkers and we ended up going to the same team lunch two weeks later, where we were able to meet up at a secret Thai location. Facing her, I was impressed by how simple it was for us to start chatting. No pretence. No awkward silences. … ease.

After lunch, she accompanied me until we reached the train. Her lips quipped, "You have such kind eyes. "You should use them more."

Her remark hung in my mind throughout the drive home.

On that night, I messaged her to thank her for being with me. She replied within seconds: "It was good. You feel like peace."

We started talking every evening. We discussed lighter topics – music, books, and what was baked lately ( she was obsessed with sourdough). Through years of our chats, emotional scars came out that I didn't even know existed. I told her I was going through a divorce. About my daughter, Nora. I told her that while I did write songs in days gone by, I hadn't touched my guitar for more than two years.

She gave me space instead of instant answers. She just listened.

In the latter part of that October, on the Friday we had an actual date, sharing an Italian meal and a walk affordable by the river on our way back. Our hearts full of hope we kissed for the first time, soaked in the rain and with wet hair. It wasn't cinematic. It was something better. It was true.

We didn't rush. It took months for me to introduce her to Nora. As soon as I did, Elisa delivered some homemade cookies and the game "Guess Who ?". Nora carried three games in succession, and that evening, they had agreed to make it a craft day for the weekend.

It was three months post, and I played the guitar for the first time since I played it the last time, performing an old favourite. Elisa pushed me into doing a little set for some close friends of hers at a bonfire in her back garden. I sang an old hymn – one that I hadn't touched in the last two generations: "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing"—it was the same hymn that I hadn't sung for years. I hit the first verse before my voice cracked, and I needed to stop myself.

"I'd forgotten that emotion, how funny," I said, choking back tears.

She touched my arm gently. "You didn't forget. You just thought you couldn't let yourself feel it any longer".

That evening, I returned to my Bible again.

A year had not passed since our first date when I turned up in the community garden for the second time, as the spring before, to propose, using the same plants we came to first sow. Nora helped me plan it. Inside a hollowed-out copy of "The Girl Who Found Home," she shoved the ring. When she took up the book, Elisa laughed and cried, saying her yes softly against my throat.

Only the following spring, we tied the knot in a small church around wildflowers. She took my hand through the vows when I said my vows in the presence of a small congregation and wildflowers in mason jars. The same day, I sang once again— carrying my guitar just over my shoulder and hearing my daughter's voice mix with mine in the closing chorus.

It's been fifteen years. Together, we've tied our lives with soft mornings, laughter, backyard pursuits, and undeserved goodwill—Nora's in college now. Elisa is currently leading sessions at the community center for creative writing. I'm back to leading worship on Sundays, not of obligation but actually offering thanks to God.

Reflecting now, I know God's presence was consistent, even if I was convinced I was alone. Just quiet. He was there, in those broken places on the walk I'd taken by myself. He was in Nora's laughter. In Elisa's patience. When, in my lowest hours, I got sucked among the waves – he appeared and graciously lifted me out.

Sometimes, love ends. Sometimes, all you're left with are the shards of your past through what you believed would last your lifetime. However, if you remain open to grace in your heart and open the door to love's presence in your life, you'll rediscover it again. This time, it could form something, something that feels more like it will endure; it feels more honest, more breath-taking than you ever thought was possible.