When I left for that trip, I was prepared for trouble. I expected a phone call from my mother. Or a message from my spiritual father. Maybe Deborah would confide in one of the elders’ wives. Maybe she would confront me publicly. After all, I had pushed her too far. But nothing happened. No calls. No reports. No drama. When I returned days later, she welcomed me calmly. Breakfast was ready. The children welcomed me. She was respectful but distant. No mention of our argument. No accusation. No tears. The silence unsettled me more than anger ever could.
That morning, I went to my office for counseling. It was one of those heavy days. My secretary walked in with the list. “Sir, there are twenty-three people today.” I nodded. “Start calling them in.” One after the other, broken people sat before me. A woman whose husband cheated. A man whose wife no longer respected him. Couples who barely spoke to each other. I listened. I quoted scripture. I gave practical steps. I prayed with fire and authority. They left relieved. Hopeful. By the time the last person remained, I was exhausted. “Next,” I said, rubbing my temple. My secretary opened the door. “Mrs. Deborah Eze.” The name felt familiar, but I was too tired to process it.
Then she walked in. My wife. She had registered with her father’s name. For a second, I thought I was dreaming. “Debo—” Before I could finish calling her first name, she went on her knees. “Man of God, please help me.” My throat went dry. “I am losing my home,” she said, her voice trembling but controlled. “My husband doesn’t see me anymore. He used to cherish me. He used to ask about my day. Now he doesn’t even notice when I cry.” Each word landed like thunder.
Then she continued He counsels other couples and their homes are restored. I see the testimonies every Sunday. But mine is breaking quietly. She swallowed. “It has been three weeks since he touched me as his wife. When I try, he says I am carnal. He says I should manage.” My chest tightened. She went on: even my children don’t recognize him anymore. They miss him. I miss him. I don’t want another man. I don’t want to leave. I just want my husband back. Her voice cracked for the first time. “Please, sir. Help me too.” I felt exposed. Stripped. Small. I was the husband. Yet here she was, kneeling before me as if I was not the one destroying her.
I forced myself to remain composed and played along. Madam, please sit down, I said gently. She obeyed. Have you tried speaking to your husband? I asked. Yes, sir. But he doesn't listen. She said as she shook her head slowly. Have you been supporting him? I asked again. She answered with everything in me, sir. I paused. My own words felt heavy. Tell him to create two days in a week just for you. No church works. No counseling. No distractions. Two days for his wife and children. She looked at me with pain-filled eyes. I will tell him, sir. But will he listen? He hardly listens anymore. Something inside me broke. “He will,” I said quietly. “Tell him. He will. I reached across the table and held her hands. As I prayed, my voice began to tremble. “Lord, restore this home. Open the husband’s eyes. Let him not gain the world and lose his family. The prayer was for me.
When she left the office, I sat there alone. The chair felt heavy. For the first time in years, I was not a Pastor. I was a failing husband. I knelt on that office floor and wept like a child. I saw my arrogance. I saw my neglect disguised as spirituality. I saw the loneliness in my own house.
That evening, I got home late. I had a meeting with another minister already scheduled. The children were already asleep when I got home. Deborah was in the kitchen, rinsing plates. I walked up behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist. She froze. It’s strange, I whispered. I saw someone at the office today who looks exactly like you. She turned slowly and spoke. “Oh really? And I replied yes. She said her husband is stubborn. A faint smile escaped her lips. I met my pastor too, she replied calmly. He prayed for my marriage. I believe his prayers are already working. We both laughed, not loudly, but deeply. The kind of laughter that carries forgiveness inside it.
Later that night, she looked at me seriously. “Two days,” she said softly. I nodded. Two days.” But it became more than two days. It became conversations again. It became helping Paul with homework. It became attending Rachel’s school events. It became holding my wife without rushing. It became listening before preaching. That night felt like a honeymoon we never finished. I apologized, not as a pastor defending his image, but as a man broken before his wife. I thanked her. For her wisdom. For her restraint. For not embarrassing me. For not scattering the church in anger. Another woman might have shouted. Fought publicly. Exposed everything. But she chose dignity. She chose strategy. She chose restoration.
Our next wedding anniversary, I took her to Dubai. Not as compensation. But as celebration. She reaped the years she had quietly sown in tears. And today, when couples testify about restoration, I smile differently. Because I know something many do not: The greatest miracle God ever did through my ministry Was saving me from myself.
What did you learn from my story
