We live in a broken world. We drive broken cars, live in broken houses, have broken marriages, broken families, broken children, broken phones, and broken bodies. The truth is—we’re broken too.

There’s an ache deep inside every one of us. An emptiness. And we spend so much of our lives trying to fill it. We upgrade the car, buy the bigger house, trade in a spouse for a “newer model,” change careers, chase another relationship, scroll another feed, hoping the next thing will finally quiet the ache.

But none of those things can heal what’s actually broken.

Because the deepest crack isn’t in our circumstances—it’s in our hearts.

That was me.

In my first marriage, I was young and immature—a broken teenager trying to play grown-up. I didn’t know who I was in Christ. I didn’t understand covenant. Instead of facing the emptiness inside me, I chased something that made me feel wanted. I called it love. I called it happiness.

God called it what it was.

It was sin.

It was adultery, and it destroyed my marriage.

If my story ended there, all I would have would be shame. But praise God—that isn’t where my story ends.

This is where mercy and grace meet broken people.

Mercy is God not giving me what my sin deserved. I deserved judgment. I deserved for Him to leave me in the consequences of my choices.

Grace is God giving me what I could never earn—forgiveness, a new heart, a new beginning, and even a third opportunity at marriage that I never could have deserved.

His grace did not excuse my sin; it rescued me from it.

My second marriage looked different, but it was still marked by brokenness.

My daughters’ father was trapped in addiction. No matter how much I prayed, pleaded, fought, or hoped, I could not make him choose us over getting high. Walking away became one of the hardest decisions of my life. I knew what Scripture says about God’s design for marriage, and I knew I would carry the weight of another failed marriage. But I also knew my daughters were being damaged, and calling destruction “faithfulness” is not what God asks of us.

So I walked away believing I would spend the rest of my life as a single mom. I made peace with raising my girls alone.

Then God brought Josh into my life.

I wasn’t shopping for another husband. I honestly believe God led Josh to me—not because either of us is perfect, but because there were still things He wanted to teach both of us through covenant, perseverance, forgiveness, and long-suffering.

Today our marriage carries the weight of both our histories and our health.

Both Josh and I live with significant medical problems. Chronic pain and exhaustion have a way of exposing what’s really in your heart. Patience doesn’t come naturally when your body hurts.

Josh grew up in a culture of instant gratification—order it, fix it, get it now. Waiting is difficult for him. I believe God is using this season to teach him patience.

At the same time, God is teaching me something just as necessary.

He’s teaching me that my husband’s impatience is never an excuse for my own anger, my sharp tongue, or my lack of grace. The Holy Spirit keeps bringing me back to my own heart.

This marriage has never looked like a Hallmark movie. There are still places where I pray for Josh to continue growing into the spiritual leader of our home. There are still places where God is exposing pride, impatience, and selfishness in me.

We’re simply two imperfect people learning to cling to a perfect Savior instead of walking away when things get hard.

And here’s what I’ve learned.

God wastes nothing.

He doesn’t look at my three marriages and say, “Too messy. I can’t use that.”

He steps directly into the wreckage.

He takes the adultery, the addiction, the arguments, the tears cried on bathroom floors, the doctor’s appointments, the hospital rooms, the chronic illness, the disappointments, and the failures—and He begins doing what only He can do.

Isaiah 61:3 says He gives us “a crown of beauty instead of ashes.”

Notice what God works with.

Ashes.

Not mildly inconvenient moments.

Not polished success stories.

Ashes.

Things that really burned to the ground.

My life is living proof that Jesus can walk into a pile of burned-up decisions and still bring mercy. Still bring grace. Still bring healing. Still write a testimony that points people back to Him.

God doesn’t call the qualified.

He qualifies those He calls.

He places His calling on ordinary people with messy histories, weak bodies, scarred hearts, and empty hands. Then He supplies what we lack—strength, wisdom, forgiveness, endurance, and even the desire to keep choosing Him.

And here’s the part that still overwhelms me.

God doesn’t stand at a distance with folded arms waiting for us to somehow climb up to Him.

He comes down.

He steps into our ashes.

Into our hospital rooms.

Into our failures.

Into our broken marriages.

Into our regrets.

Into every place we’d rather hide.

He meets us exactly where we are—not to leave us there, but to lovingly lead us where He is.

That’s what Isaiah 61:3 means to me.

He isn’t just cleaning up a few inconveniences.

He’s taking what truly burned down in my life—and in yours—and exchanging it for His beauty, His presence, and a testimony that brings Him glory.

If He can redeem my story, He can redeem yours too.

The ashes are never the end when Jesus is writing the story.

🔆 Your sister in Christ,

Sunnye Anne