Picture a closet, bursting at the seams. Now picture a girl, back to the door, doing everything she can to brace herself against it to keep the contents from tumbling out all over the room.

I was that girl. And I'm going to tell you about the dirty little secret that was in my closet.

I'm a Christian. I don't mean "Christian" in a cultural sense. I mean that I'm a born-again, church-attending, asked-Jesus-into-my-heart, used-to-be-on-staff-at-a-church, quiet-time-having kind of Christian.

And this was my secret: I was in a very difficult Christian marriage.

And I don't say "very difficult" lightly. I don't mean he didn't bring me flowers anymore. Or the toothpaste cap was always off. I mean there was more fighting than peace, more crying than laughter, more hiding than truth, sobbing-on-my-bathroom-floor-asking-Jesus-to-kill-me-because-divorce-wasn't-an-option kind of very difficult.

And I didn't want anyone to know. ...

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