Divine Trilogy: Finding the Beloved

Divine Trilogy: Finding the Beloved

“Love is the hub of the universe upon which everything else revolves.”

Introduction

People always ask me the same question:

“You’ve been married three times—and all of them were named Dave?”

Yes. Every husband I married was named Dave.

No, I didn’t have a “Dave-only” policy. But looking back, it feels less like coincidence and more like a curriculum—three relationships that, one by one, taught me what love is, what it isn’t, and who I had to become to recognize the difference.

Each Dave revealed something essential: my patterns, my wounds, my capacity to love—and my tendency to lose myself inside it.

For a long time, I hesitated to share this story. Multiple marriages still carry a quiet stigma. But I no longer see my past as something to defend. I see it as a path—one that led me toward a deeper understanding of love, of God, and of myself.

The name David means “beloved.” I didn’t understand the significance then. In hindsight, each relationship was part of a larger search—for the Beloved not just in another person, but within my own soul.

This is not just my story. If you’ve ever loved, lost, or had to begin again, you may find pieces of yourself here. The search for the Beloved—however we define it—is something we all share.

Mine began long before I had the words for it.

It began in 1974.

Divine Trilogy I
Chapter 1
Cleaning Up My Act (and My Heart)

Sometimes the greatest makeovers start with your soul, not your wardrobe.

If this were a movie, this part would be a montage: disco lights, questionable hair, and a soundtrack somewhere between Billy Joel and the Bee Gees.

It’s 1974. I’m nineteen. Life feels simple—unless you count beauty pageants, double dates, and the eternal mystery of why boys can’t say goodbye in under ten minutes.

I had just won the city-level Miss America competition—Miss Roseville, thank you very much. My date that night was my boyfriend, James. But Dave—yes, that Dave—was there too, dating Miss Detroit.

Beauty queens everywhere. Think Miss Congeniality, but with more Aqua Net.

At the end of the night, James was getting a little too comfortable saying goodnight to Miss Detroit at her front door. And by “a little,” I mean long enough for me to wonder if he was reciting the entire Declaration of Independence.

So, in a moment of equal parts mischief and wounded pride, I turned to Dave and suggested we leave him there.

Dave didn’t hesitate.

He gunned the car down the street while James ran after us, waving his arms like he was trying to flag down a cab in Times Square. We were laughing so hard we could barely breathe.

If you ever doubt the power of bonding, try leaving a boyfriend behind together.

James and I broke up soon after—or maybe he broke up with me. Either way, it was for the best. If I had stayed with James, this would be a very different story.

Dave, on the other hand, was hard to ignore. He played in a band, worked his way through college, and had the kind of presence that made even dedicated wallflowers want to dance. I started showing up at the bars where he performed—initially for the music, of course. But let’s just say the lead singer didn’t hurt.

Looking back, I sometimes wonder if I fell in love with him or with the myth of him. Either way, I was all in.

We were both in college—he studying business, me in education. We lived at home, commuted to campus, pinched pennies, and did our best to build something resembling a future. I waitressed. He played rock-and-roll. If our lives had a theme song, it would have been written by Billy Joel and performed by a wedding cover band.

Like many couples in that era, we moved quickly. Our friends were getting engaged, planning weddings, stepping into adulthood with more enthusiasm than awareness. We followed suit—sharing celebrations, cheap banquet halls, and open bars stocked with whatever our tips could buy. The lighting was dim, which helped. You couldn’t see the carpet stains, and everyone looked better after a few drinks.

Our honeymoon took us to the Poconos, to the legendary Cove Haven Resort, home of the heart-shaped Jacuzzi. Nothing says “eternal love” like soaking in a tub shaped like a Valentine’s Day card, surrounded by mirrors and the faint aroma of 1970s romance. Our friends had gifted us a Kamasutra kit and a hidden stash of honeymoon marijuana, and we did our best to rise to the occasion.

Somewhere between the laughter, the weed, and the steam, I got pregnant.

Life accelerated after that.

Dave finished his degree. I dropped out and went back to waitressing. We moved into a two-bedroom apartment and worked opposite shifts, passing each other like ships in the night—communicating mostly through sticky notes and the occasional bleary-eyed hug in the hallway.

Still, we held onto a shared dream: a home of our own. A yard. A place where family could gather for holidays and milestones, where our hard work would finally crystallize into something solid and lasting.

I scoured listings and neighborhoods, walking through tired houses and imagining fresh paint and new beginnings. I believed, with the stubborn optimism of youth, that if we just worked hard enough, we could build something better than what we’d come from.

Dave’s father played a pivotal role in making that dream possible. Using his VA loan, he bought the home we fell in love with, and we arranged to purchase it from him. That house became the tangible proof of our effort—the thing we had saved for, hoped for, and could finally, gratefully, call our own.

We had our first child and began to feel like real adults. Just before closing on the house, I found out I was pregnant again. The timing felt almost scripted. We moved in, planning a housewarming and a baby shower at the same time, each room echoing with the promise of our growing family.

For a while, it looked like the story we’d imagined: two young parents, two babies, and a starter home we could grow into. We had the house, the family, the dream—at least on paper.

But beneath the new paint and fresh carpets, a subtle tension was building.

Tug of War with the Matriarchs

Somewhere along the way, I began to notice how much sway our mothers had over our daily lives. It started small—suggestions, opinions, “helpful” advice—but over time their voices grew louder and harder to ignore.

Decisions I thought belonged to Dave and me somehow became group projects. Which job he should take. How we should spend holidays. How to raise the kids. I’d find out about conversations they’d had without me, choices made before I even knew there was a question.

It felt less like we were forming our own family and more like we were being folded back into theirs.

If there was ever a tug-of-war between mother-in-law wisdom and my perspective, the rope was slipping fast from my hands. I wanted our marriage to be a duet, the two of us listening to and choosing each other. Instead, I kept feeling pushed toward the edges of our life together—present, but not quite centered.

I’d offer an opinion and watch it get weighed against what the mothers thought. If we disagreed, their preferences often won. The unspoken message was clear: their experience outranked my intuition.

That undercurrent of divided loyalty sent quiet ripples through our togetherness. On the surface, we had the trappings of a young success story: house, kids, stability. But inside, something in me was starting to ache.

I didn’t have the language then for boundaries or enmeshment. I only knew that I was beginning to feel strangely alone in a house full of people.

Most of us step into adulthood with a suitcase full of hope and almost no idea what’s actually inside. We imagine that if we just love hard enough and do what we’re “supposed” to do, our hearts and homes will organize themselves into something peaceful and picture-perfect.

The reality is often messier.

Sometimes it looks like missed cues, good intentions, and a mother-in-law rising like a plot twist you never saw coming. Sometimes it looks like laughing in a heart-shaped Jacuzzi one year and quietly wondering, the next, where exactly you went in the story of your own life.

I didn’t know it then, but this was the beginning of my cleaning up—long before I ever called it that. Later, I would come to see that every season of my life with the Daves fit into a kind of sacred trilogy: first, cleaning up the old stories and wounds I carried; then growing up into greater emotional honesty and responsibility; and finally showing up—fully, imperfectly, and wholeheartedly—for myself, for others, and for the Beloved moving through it all. This chapter is where that work quietly begins.

Divine Trilogy I
Chapter 2
Mother Knows Best… Or Does She?

When your mother and mother-in-law join forces, even the CIA takes notes.

When my mother and mother-in-law formed their secret alliance, I landed in the crosshairs of family politics and old patterns. Dodging their schemes, I began to see that the Beloved sometimes appears as comic relief—or as the patience you never knew you had.

Arrival Of Our Valentine Baby Girl

If you ever want to test the strength of your marriage, invite both your mother and your mother-in-law into the delivery story. Spoiler: it’s less “bonding experience,” more guest-starring in a live episode of General Hospital.

My vision was simple—just Dave and me, awestruck, breathing the same air as our brand-new baby. Dave said he wanted that too. But in a twist worthy of daytime TV, he made a secret pact with my mom. When it was time to go to the hospital, he turned to me and said, “Wait, your mom is coming with us.”

My heart dropped faster than my hospital gown.

As fate—and hospital policy—would have it, Dave wasn’t even allowed into the delivery room for my emergency C-section. So on Valentine’s Day, surrounded by strangers in scrubs, I gave birth. The loneliness was thick in my chest—a quiet ache as I delivered a baby on the day meant for love. I had wanted a Hallmark moment. Instead, I got fluorescent lights and a curtain between me and my own body.

The miracle of my baby girl’s arrival and the wound of feeling unseen landed in the same instant.

Meeting My Luminous Baby Girl

I didn’t know if I was having a boy or a girl, and since I already had a son, the arrival of a daughter felt like the universe had sent a second chance wrapped in pink light. I fell in love instantly.

At the exact moment of her birth, the Hallelujah Chorus began playing in the delivery room. February, fluorescent lights, gloved hands—and suddenly this triumphant music. I asked if anyone else heard it. The staff stayed focused on their work; no one answered. While they concentrated on the incision and sutures, I was suspended in awe, “hallelujahs” swirling around me like a private benediction.

It felt enchanted, as if the universe were proclaiming her arrival. In that moment, she was already transforming mine.

When they laid her against my skin, I was stunned into silence. She gazed at me with ancient eyes, tiny and perfect, heart pressed to heart. In her look, I saw both innocence and something timeless—like she had always belonged here.

Invisible Tension of Generational Pain

Even in that holy moment, invisible stories pressed in on us. The room was full of women—a female doctor, all female nurses—yet it felt more crowded with the weight of my history and my mother’s. Silent pain hovered there: our anxieties, unspoken trauma, swallowed grief.

My mother’s life had been a tapestry of distress—stitched with worry and old scars. Whether I could see it or not, her restless energy and unmet needs followed us into that delivery room.

Yet the Hallelujah Chorus rose above the sterile clatter, a melody insisting on life. Birth and pain were entwined with hope. The song wasn’t just background noise; it felt like a proclamation: even as we carry wounds forward, the Beloved is already here.

As my body was stitched back together and my daughter lay serenely in my arms, I sensed we were being held by something larger than any of us. The echo of “hallelujah” felt like both legacy and promise—that no matter how heavy the burdens, light keeps breaking through.

My Own “Little Girl” Inside

At the center of my healing is the “little girl” inside me—the youngest version of myself who never leaves, no matter how old I get. I’ve watched her chased by addiction, longing, disappointment, chaos. Sometimes it’s my own choices that threaten her; sometimes it’s the world.

In my inner life, she hides in closets, under blankets, inside imagined tents—out of sight so she won’t be discovered and destroyed. She is precious because she is my innocence. Our innocence is where we find the Beloved.

In dreams, I often see her as a small infant, crying in the dark while strangers—or even friends—search for her with cold intent. I spin stories to distract them, smuggle her food, shield her with whatever I can find. I remember: she is me. I am her. If she is not protected, nothing pure in me survives.

The work of inner healing, for me, is finding and loving that young self. Keeping her safe from the world’s betrayals—and my own.

The Script of Betrayal

My Valentine baby girl was born into what, for me, felt like a script of betrayal.

At the time, I couldn’t articulate it. I only knew that the people closest to me—the man I loved and the mother whose needs always seemed to outrun my own—had made decisions about my birth experience without me. At the threshold of motherhood, my voice had been erased behind closed doors.

Now, I can imagine that Dave might have betrayed himself too. Maybe he was as lost as I was, more loyal to keeping the peace than to listening to his own heart.

Still, her birth marked the beginning of the end for us—a quiet fault line that would widen over time. She entered a field charged with heartbreak and a longing for safety I could not yet give her or myself.

Being My Own Fierce and Gentle Guardian

I left that delivery room knowing, deep down, that while I was physically safe, I wasn’t emotionally safe—not from my perspective. My deepest innocence needed a new kind of protection, a fierce and gentle guardian I hadn’t yet learned to become.

Our innocence is where the Beloved lives. “Become like children,” Jesus said, because only the pure in heart can recognize love and belonging when they see it.

The strange gift of this pain was realizing that inner healing means finding and fiercely loving that youngest part of myself—refusing to abandon her just because others had. She is always there, hiding, always needing care. She is me, and I am her.

The story that began with betrayal is also a story of survival: agony and beauty bound together, abandonment and the quiet hope that innocence, even wounded, can someday thrive again.

Perfect on the Outside, Crisis on the Inside

From the outside, we looked like the American Dream: loving husband, one boy, one girl, house in the suburbs, church on Sundays. It looked so good I almost believed it myself.

Inside, I felt empty.

I tried to fill the void with more activities, more parties, and more pot and wine than any self-help book would recommend. I was a pro at playing the happy wife and mother, but beneath the performance I was running on fumes.

Auto-Pilot, Now with Turbulence

I tried to explain my feelings to Dave. He was steady, responsible, and completely baffled by my unhappiness. He thought we had a good life. For him, maybe we did. For me, it felt like I was watching my own life on TV while someone else held the remote.

We were living parallel lives. He worked days at the office and nights in a wedding band. I worked nights as a waitress, later delivering singing telegrams, then doing an exercise TV program and teaching classes, and days as a mom. Our “quality time” was two ships passing in the night—if those ships were carrying laundry and overdue bills.

Boundaries and the “Bad Kid”

Meanwhile, our mothers moved through our lives like they owned stock in them. Dave tried to please everyone, but my needs were the first to evaporate. I hosted holidays, packed for family vacations, and bent over backward to keep everyone else comfortable. The love between Dave and me was dying a slow, quiet death.

I didn’t understand boundaries then. I thought if I kept everyone happy, it would all work out. I didn’t realize that a boundary is the invisible fence around our feelings and choices—the line where we end and someone else begins.

Without that fence, I kept losing myself.

Dave listened more to the mothers than to me. He showed little curiosity about my inner world. Those undercurrents quietly pulled us off course until the gap between us became impossible to ignore.

I wasn’t ready to give up. Part of me still believed we could realign and become equal partners. I knew we needed honest conversation and real counseling—something to interrupt the old patterns.

I also knew what it felt like to be cast as the “bad girl” in a family story. In many families, the truth-teller becomes the scapegoat—the one whose desire for honesty threatens the fragile peace. I could feel myself drifting into that role.

So I asked Dave for support—for us to seek help together. He saw no problem and no reason to pursue counseling. That left me more aware than ever of how far apart we’d grown.

Both mothers adored the grandchildren and never aimed their criticism at them. For that, I was grateful. But when it came to me, their disapproval was clear enough. I was “too much,” “never satisfied,” the one who should just be happy.

They were good people—just a little too enthusiastic about “helping” when it came to me.

Caught in that web of old roles and unspoken rules, I realized I couldn’t break free on my own. If I didn’t get help, I would keep betraying myself just to keep the peace.

Wisdom and Humor Takeaway

If you ever want to know what it feels like to star in an invisible family drama, try living in a house where the matriarchs pull the strings behind the curtain. At first, the signs are subtle—whispered side deals, “helpful” suggestions, your own needs quietly disappearing.

Dodging family politics became my new sport.

I kept hoping I could win everyone over by working harder—one more party, one more smile, one more round of pretending “it’s fine.” The cosmic joke is that wisdom in families almost always arrives disguised as chaos and laugh-so-you-don’t-cry moments.

Sometimes the Beloved shows up as comic relief. Other times, as the patience you never wanted to learn.

The hardest wisdom is this: without boundaries, you end up lost, playing the “bad child” in a story written long before you were born. Breaking free means risking everyone else’s discomfort so you don’t keep betraying yourself.

When your life starts to feel like a soap opera where you’re not even the star, the only way out is to become your own fierce, gentle guardian. Sometimes you stop begging for a seat at the table and build your own. Sometimes survival means calling for help, even if you’re accused of rocking the boat.

If humor is the only shield you have, wear it like armor. If wisdom comes disguised as heartache, trust that it’s sharpening you for the real work: loving your own innocence fiercely—so the next chapter, finally, belongs to you.