Most everyone has that one day you will never be able to forget.

No matter how much you try.

Your old memories lead

up to it and your new ones lead back to it.

You relive the years, months, days, hours, minutes, even seconds that led up to that day.

You question every decision although it will never change a thing.

My day was a Sunday.

A Sunday in April.

That year I had married the man from across the street who I believe loved me but loved alcohol more.

Months leading up to this day he was drinking more and more.

He was an alcoholic I couldn’t change and believe me I tried.

I prayed.

I fasted.

In fact on this day…I was in the middle of a 40 day fast.

In complete denial, I didn’t want to see the seriousness of the danger I was truly in…the danger my children were in.

Because it wasn’t a daily occurrence, I dismissed the abuse that led up to this day.

The yelling.

The hair pulling.

Even the knife to my throat.

Why didn’t I leave?

I loved him.

I believed him when he said he’d never do it again.

Once again I was believing for a miracle…I just knew He was going to be delivered.

Wrong.

Almost dead wrong.

That Sunday in April, I came home from church to him drunk.

That day my children watched from afar as he beat me over and over with his fist.

That day I barely got away because I was waiting for a miracle.

It’s ok to believe for a miracle.

It’s not ok to put your life in danger as you wait for the miracle.

I should have left the first time he got in my face uncontrollably and yelling.

I should have left.

I learned this lesson the hard way.