From Agony to Illumination: The Liberation of a Sifted Soul
By Dr. Verlyn Fontaine Waterman | Who Is She! Blog
One of the most profound revelations of my life emerged through the remembrance of my marriage—not just the memory of a man, but the unfolding of a divine lesson disguised as heartbreak.
He was a brilliant soul—gifted, talented, deeply creative. These were not simply traits I admired—they were dimensions of his being that I honored, supported, and at times, protected. But brilliance without cultivation is a withering flame. He possessed the theory of greatness but lacked the intimacy and stewardship to embody it. He understood gifting intellectually but struggled to nurture it spiritually. He allowed external voices—unholy echoes rehearsed in bitterness and broken models—to infiltrate our sacred space. And with that, divine destiny was drowned beneath the noise of destructive narratives.
Yet through the clarity that the sifting brings, I now see him not as a mistake I made—but as a mirror God allowed. His brilliance was genuine. His blindness was tragic. But even this chapter was not wasted—it was a corridor through which I passed into deeper wisdom, fuller discernment, and compassion I would later need to carry others.
The Breach in the Covenant
He often said, “We got married on purpose for purpose.” And I believed it. I built a life on it. But somewhere along the way, purpose became obstructed. It felt fractured, abandoned, almost unreal. All that remained was a covenant shell—hollow, echoing with promises unkept and vows unhonored.
And still, I stayed.
Because a covenant is sacred. Even when broken by another, a covenant holds weight in the heavens. I held it in my bosom like Mary held the words of the angel—pondering silently the invisible work of God.
For years, I carried what felt like a one-sided promise. I stayed, not because it was easy, but because something in me honored the sacred, even when it was no longer reciprocated. I bore the ridicule, the false accusations, the bitter words—those that cut deeper than any visible wound. And yet I stood, maintaining composure while carrying private devastation.
I know now this too was a part of the sift—not just to expose what was around me, but to reveal the strength within me.
Ministering While Broken
I remember hosting a women’s conference titled “Blessings in Brokenness.” What many didn’t know was that I was more broken than those I ministered to. But I didn’t minister with pain—I ministered through it. I wasn’t bleeding; I had been broken open. And in that openness, heaven had filled the cracks with wisdom.
I still minister that way—because it’s not the pain I carry; it’s the prize I gathered from the pain. That is what I pour.
Soul Ties and Spiritual Entanglements
What resurfaced today came quietly, and I didn’t resist it. Maybe it returned because it’s his birthday. Maybe it returned because it’s the day our divorce was finalized years ago. But this time, I didn’t revisit the memory as a victim—I returned as a witness. I was ready to walk through it with divine clarity.
You see, soul ties are real. When a covenant is made—through marriage, intimacy, shared destiny—a spiritual cord is created. If that tie is not sanctified, nurtured, or honored, it can turn toxic, binding one soul to a distorted version of another. These ties create spiritual congestion: confusion, stagnation, emotional heaviness, even spiritual oppression.
And when a covenant is broken—especially one that was once consecrated—the severing is complex. It’s not just legal—it’s spiritual surgery. That’s why healing doesn’t come through time alone. It comes through truth, deliverance, and the sifting hand of God, separating the soul from every entangled cord, every unholy vow, every lingering residue of shame or sorrow.
The Rescued Soul
This Wasn’t Just the End of a Marriage—It Was the Rescue of My Soul
This isn’t simply a story of a marriage that ended. It is the testimony of a soul that was rescued.
My soul.
My daughter once said to me, “You pray everything away.” But she didn’t know what I was truly up against. She couldn’t have. There were truths I buried—not out of fear, but for protection. For her sake. For my peace. And maybe even for my sanity. Some truths were so deeply hidden that even I forgot they existed—until the Holy Spirit brought them back. Not to torment me… but to transform me.
There is one truth in particular—one I never wanted to confront. One I pushed so far down that I convinced myself it didn’t matter anymore. But truth—unspoken, unhealed—has a way of rising when your soul is ready to be free.
And I am ready.
Some marriages carry truths so weighty, that exposing them seems more harmful than healing. I believed this was one of them. But now I know that unless I lay it on the altar—fully, without pretense—it will keep trying to obstruct my path.
So here it is:
After I gave birth, I asked my mother to call my husband and tell him the baby had arrived. I was in the ICU. She returned to my bedside and, with a mixture of pain and fury, said:
“You married an ass.”
When I asked her what happened, she looked at me and repeated what he allegedly said:
“Send it back. I wanted a boy—not a girl.”
For years, all I truly heard was “Send it back.” But over time, the word “send” faded… and all I could hear was “IT.”
That’s where my grief deepened, and my anger intensified.
Because my child—my blessing—was never an “it.” She is not disposable. She is not a mistake.
SHE IS WHO SHE IS!!!!
Beautiful. Chosen. Divine.
At that moment, I said nothing. I was stunned—physically weak, emotionally disoriented, and spiritually shaken. I had just given birth. I had just survived trauma.
And yet, the one I expected to affirm our daughter’s arrival dismissed her existence with a word that reduced her to an object.
That wasn’t just a careless comment—it was a wound delivered in disguise. It wasn’t just offensive—it pierced the soul of a mother. And in that moment, something shifted in me forever.
Because this wasn’t just about what he said. It was about the life I carried. The soul that now was. She came from God. She was never “it.” She was always “I Am.”
This happened in the days immediately following 9/11. Borders were closed. He was in Canada. I was in the United States. We didn’t see each other until months later. When we reunited, I asked him about the comment—not to accuse, but to observe his face, to hear his tone, to measure his spirit. He laughed. “It was just a joke,” he said.
I laughed too—but not because it was funny.
I laughed because something inside me fractured, and that statement echoed through the halls of our marriage. It became a silent thread that tied itself around everything.
And the tragedy is—he never corrected it.
He never said it wasn’t true. He never said, “I’m sorry”. He just never——-.
What I once assumed was my mother’s bitterness, and dislike for him, I realized that day was not a fabrication. It was the moment I knew: something had shifted in me forever.
Years later—long after the divorce, long after I thought I had moved on—this memory resurfaced. On his birthday. It wasn’t a coincidence. It was divine timing. It was time to see it, name it, and release it.
The Ripple of His Rejection
His rejection of our daughter wasn’t a one-time event. It was repeated—subtle, masked, but persistent. He punished her to punish me. And though I could endure his mistreatment, I couldn’t bear to see her caught in the crossfire.
And yet, she continued to love him.
She trusted him.
She believed in him.
Until eventually, he convinced her of the lie—that this is just who he was.
And she believed it.
I wish I could have prayed that away. But I couldn’t. Some things must be felt, grieved, named, and only then released.
And here is the part I never told anyone—until now:
The boy he so desperately wanted…I carried. And I lost him in miscarriage.
I never told a soul. Not because I was ashamed, But because the weight of that moment was too sacred—too sorrowful—for words.
But now…Now I understand. God did not allow these memories to return to torment me. He allowed them to surface to free me. This was never about punishing someone else—it was about liberating myself.
Not just from a failed marriage, but from the soul-tie of unspoken sorrow. From the residue of a rejection I tried to pretend didn’t matter. From the trauma I tried to treat with silence.
Now I know: Truth must be released to be healed. And silence, when it protects lies, becomes its own form of bondage.
But no more.
Today, I speak.
Today, I remember.
Today, I release.
This wasn’t just a marriage that ended. This was a soul that was rescued.
Mine.
Eventually, I stopped fighting. Not out of defeat—but from discernment. I didn’t want war. I wanted peace. Not just the peace I told myself I had—but the peace God desired to give me—a peace that dwells, not visits.
“Wait on the Lord; be of good courage, and He shall strengthen your heart. Wait, I say, on the Lord.” (Psalm 27:14)
And so I waited. I waited in silence. I waited in worship. I waited until the sting of betrayal no longer stung. Until the hopes I had buried could be left in the tomb—not as wounds, but as seeds.
Like Jesus in the grave—I laid them down for three days.
And like Him—I rose.
But I rose differently.
I rose freer.
Lighter.
Awakened.
The Sacred Aftermath
I no longer revisit that chapter with longing or anger. I carry no residue of bitterness. I carry only the lesson and the liberation. God sifted me—He separated what remained of the wheat from the chaff, and in doing so, He severed every soul tie that bound me to a version of life that could never be again.
And now, I walk vibrantly, confidently, untethered.
Because I’ve been sifted.
And I am finally free.
Just Me
Verlyn