Sarah is on the front cover of our 2025 Annual Report. We invite you to take a moment to read the story behind her photo – and the healing journey it represents.

As told by Sarah, written by Lauren Rose 

In the beginning, my marriage looked beautiful.

My husband was charming, attentive, and talked often about loving me “like Jesus.” I believed him. I truly thought I was marrying a safe, godly man.

But about six months after our wedding – when I became pregnant and very sick – something shifted.

It felt sudden and confusing.

Instead of tenderness, there was irritation. Instead of compassion, there was distance. I remember lying in bed at night, crying quietly beside the man who had promised to cherish me, while he rolled over and fell asleep like my tears didn’t matter.

I kept thinking, This isn’t how Jesus loves.

But I told myself that he didn’t know how to show empathy because of his difficult childhood. That if I loved him well enough, long enough, he would change.

I believed he was broken – and that maybe God could use my love to heal him.

So I tried harder.

Over the years, things didn’t get better. They got tighter, more controlled. Things stayed “peaceful” as long as I agreed with him, but if I questioned anything, there was manipulation or punishment until I gave in. Every conversation somehow turned into my fault. If I raised concerns, I was “too sensitive.” He controlled finances, even putting me on “spending freezes” for months despite money in the bank. He also used Scripture to pressure and manipulate me. There was occasional physical abuse toward the kids.

If we saw counselors or went to marriage ministries, he downplayed everything like we just had “normal marriage problems.”

If someone ever saw through it and validated me, he would cut them off.

I slowly began to doubt my own reality.

One day, my daughter said something that stopped me in my tracks:

“Dad is like a different person around other people than when he is with us.”

Hearing her say that broke my heart – and helped open my eyes.

It wasn’t just me.

It wasn’t miscommunication.

It wasn’t a hard season.

It was abuse.

Still, I stayed. I prayed. I hoped. I tried to be more patient, more gracious, more forgiving.

For Eighteen years.

Then I saw a post about the Women’s Retreat hosted by Called to Peace Ministries. When I told my church, where I’m on staff, how much I hoped to attend the retreat, they lovingly supported me with extra paid time off and even paid my way so I could go.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but that week would change everything.

I arrived a day early because I was so exhausted, I just needed space to breathe. I remember walking the property alone, circling the lake, letting the quiet settle into my bones.

And everywhere I looked, flowers were blooming.

Back home, Spring hadn’t come yet. But here, there were huge rhododendrons, peonies, roses – everywhere. Gardening had become something special to me in those hard years, and it felt like God had placed me in the middle of my favorite things.

I just started crying.

It felt like He had lifted me out of my storm and set me down in a garden.

Months earlier, I had written a poem that repeated the line “Spring is coming” – a reminder to myself that hope wasn’t dead.

Standing there, surrounded by blooms, it felt like God whispering, “See? I meant it.”

During one of the sessions, something hit me out of nowhere:

What if my husband was doing this accidentally? 

I asked to meet with one of the counselors one-on-one. Through tears, I told her how I’d spent 18 years believing that if I loved my husband well enough, he’d change.

She gently asked me, “Have you ever manipulated someone by accident?”

I almost laughed. “No. Manipulation is intentional.”

And then it clicked.

His behavior wasn’t ignorance.

It was a choice.

There had been intentional cruelty.

It crushed me – but it also set me free.

For the first time, I realized it wasn’t my job to fix him. Control had worked because I kept folding to keep the peace. And I decided right then – it wouldn’t work on me anymore.

The rest of the week felt like God slowly putting me back together.

I sat with different women at every meal. I listened to their stories. Women who described things I had lived but never had words for.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel crazy.

I felt seen.

Validated.

Understood.

The teaching gave me language. The counselors gave me clarity. And the sisterhood reminded me I wasn’t alone.

Because of generous donors, I was able to be there. I was able to rest, to process, to finally name what had happened to me. 

It felt like such a gift from God.

Today, my journey isn’t perfect or easy. There are still hard days, especially as the control sometimes tries to reach me by working through our kids. But something inside me has changed.

The tactics don’t work like they used to.

I know my worth now.

I know how deeply God loves me.

And I know I deserve to feel safe.

Because of Called to Peace Ministries – and because someone chose to give – I found peace.