Fired, Molded, and Set Apart
10) Proverbs 31
The Proverbs 31 woman wasn’t just an ideal; she became the focus of my prayers, my consistent evening petition to God. Night after night, I bowed my head and asked for His blessing: for a wife who was wise and kind, someone who would pour her heart into her family with love and devotion. I trusted that God was preparing her for me, just as He was preparing me for her.
I had just enough money left from the $500 to scrape by until payday. Life felt stripped down to the basics—no furniture, just a sleeping bag on the carpet. My kitchen was empty, my phone silent, and my days lacked any sense of community. I had no friends, no church, no sense of belonging—just a few clothes, my Bible, and a longing for something more.
The following day was Sunday, and a quiet, persistent feeling stirred in me: I needed to find a church. Back home, I’d attended an Alliance Church while in school. It was all I knew, the only place I felt spiritually at home. With nothing more than a sliver of hope, I flipped through the phone book and spotted an Alliance Church nearby. I decided to go, knowing I couldn’t do this alone. I needed faith and fellowship to navigate this fresh start.
Walking through the church doors felt like crossing into something unknown but necessary. The sanctuary was divided into three sections: a large central area flanked by two smaller ones. I found a seat near the back, tucked away where I could observe without feeling exposed.
The service wasn’t what I expected. A live band set up on stage, instruments gleaming under the lights. The energy in the room was electric, the worship unrestrained. It was vibrant, passionate, and utterly unfamiliar. Words were projected onto a large screen, and the congregation sang with hands raised, their intensity unsettling me. It felt foreign, and I wasn’t sure how to respond.
After the service, people lingered, mingling and chatting. An older couple approached me, introducing themselves with kindness. When they learned I was new to the city and didn’t know anyone, they invited me to their home for lunch. I hesitated, unsure if I should accept, but their warmth won me over. That simple act of hospitality made me feel seen and welcomed. It was the first spark of belonging, and it drew me back the following Sunday.
The second Sunday felt as strange as the first. The worship style, the energy, and the expressive faith were so unlike what I’d known at my Alliance Church back home. I started wondering if there were two kinds of Alliance Churches or if I’d accidentally walked into something else entirely. Despite my confusion, I felt a pull to keep coming back.
It wasn’t until later that I discovered the Alliance Church I’d been looking for was right across the street from this Pentecostal church. By then, it didn’t matter. I’d found a place where people cared, and that was enough to make me stay.
After a few visits, I began meeting young adults and teens who welcomed me with open arms. Their energy and friendliness were a refreshing contrast to the uncertainty I’d felt earlier. The environment, though unfamiliar, slowly became a place where I felt at ease.
One evening, after a service, I lingered by the entrance as a group of young people decided where to go for coffee. I wasn’t part of the conversation but watched from a distance, unsure whether to step forward or quietly leave. That’s when her eyes met mine.
She noticed me standing alone and walked over, her expression warm and inviting. Her voice matched her demeanor when she asked, “Would you like to join us for coffee?” Even though it was an act of kindness, I was captivated. Her presence disarmed me with its warmth and sincerity. She noticed me standing there alone and extended an invitation to join the group for coffee. Surprised but grateful, I agreed, not realizing how significant that simple act of kindness would become.
When we arrived at the restaurant, the group was nowhere to be found. The place was quiet, and we were left alone at a large table. As we talked, I discovered a connection with her that I couldn’t explain. Our conversation flowed naturally, each word feeling like it was building something extraordinary.
Later, we learned that the group had changed plans without telling us, leaving us alone on what felt like an accidental blind date. It didn’t feel like a mistake; it felt like divine intervention.
That evening, as I drove home, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. The possibility that this could be the woman I had prayed for felt incredible. Reflecting on the sequence of events—every twist, turn, and “coincidence”—I knew it wasn’t random. Picking “North” from a jar, landing a job at Western Star, finding an apartment, and walking into the “wrong” church were all steps orchestrated by the Teacher’s hand.
The week ahead was long, filled with work and the noise of the bickering couple in the apartment above me. I found myself wondering why so many relationships seemed filled with anger. At work, my inexperience made me an easy target for jokes. Every time I hit my knee or smashed my finger, coworkers watched for my reaction, hoping for colorful language. When I winced but stayed silent, they seemed disappointed. God had erased that part of my life, and I found quiet amusement in their frustration.
The anticipation of seeing her again at church kept me going. I didn’t know what the future held, but I felt the pull of something greater unfolding. The pieces of my journey, though scattered, were falling into place with a precision that could only come from the Teacher’s hand.
As the weeks turned into months, we began seeing each other regularly. What started with an unexpected coffee outing grew into something deep and undeniable. She wasn’t just kind and beautiful; she was the answer to my prayers, my Proverbs 31 woman. The connection we shared became the foundation of a relationship filled with faith, love, and a shared desire to follow the Lord.
Thirteen months later, we were married. It was a joyous celebration, surrounded by family, friends, and the church community that had embraced us. Two years after our wedding, we welcomed a son into the world. It felt like a season of fulfillment—a time when God’s blessings were tangible and abundant.
For three years after we met, God seemed to let us live in relative peace, a period free of major disruptions. But those years were far from easy. As polar opposites in every imaginable way, we faced challenges simply learning how to coexist as husband and wife. Our differences often felt like mountains to climb, and each misunderstanding or disagreement tested our patience and commitment.
Yet, in those years, we grew. The friction between our personalities wasn’t a flaw; it was a tool the Holy Spirit used to refine us. Learning to navigate our differences, to listen and compromise, built character in ways that no external challenge ever could. It prepared us, not just for the joys of marriage, but for the tests that would inevitably come.
We grew as individuals and as a couple, learning to lean on God not only for the big decisions but for the daily, small acts of love and grace. By the end of those three years, we had built a foundation that was both stronger and enduring—a unity forged in fire.
And then, without warning, God disrupted our bliss. He placed a harsh request into my life, one that shook the comfort we had come to know. It wasn’t just a challenge; it was a call to deeper surrender, one that required us to trust Him in ways we hadn’t before. The transformation of the previous years had prepared us for this moment, shaping our character and faith so we could face it together.
Looking back, I can see the Teacher’s wisdom in giving us that time—time to learn, to grow, and to become the partners we needed to be. Though the path ahead was unclear, we trusted that the same God who had brought us together would guide us through whatever came next.