About twenty years ago, I began a relationship with another man. And I must confess, it has become rather intimate.

Now that I have your full attention… let me say that there’s nothing sordid about it. My first husband, Bryan, knows all about him. He tried to get rid of this other guy about a decade ago because, frankly, he’s hideous. He’s an eyesore. He doesn’t match the décor. He dirties up what is otherwise a very nice-looking bedroom.

You see, my other husband—is a pillow. That is literally what it is called, a “husband” pillow. It’s one of those big back cushions with arms that stretch out on both sides. He is perfect for snuggling up with a good book or a classic film. Now that I’m older, he props my back at an angle that keeps me from aching overnight. I cannot begin to count the hours I’ve spent in this pillow’s arms.

At some point, I don’t recall when, I found another purpose for this trusted friend. One day when I was down on my knees crying out to God about something, I don’t recall what, I looked over and saw my old mate nearby. I pulled him close, right in front of me, and suddenly—this other husband became something much more precious than a pillow…

He became an altar, the place where I meet God.

I’ve poured my guts onto the dependable chest of this other husband countless times, and he bears the tale. I’ve sobbed on him and beaten him. I’ve prayed fervent prayers wrapped in his broken arms. Ripped and ragged, stained and stitched, it’s no wonder my real husband wanted to replace him.

But I can’t.

He bears the heart-wrenching milestones of so many journeys.

My other husband was there when we moved across country.

He was there when I laid down my old life as an actor and started a new life as a mom.

He was there when I didn’t know who I was.

He was there when we couldn’t make ends meet.

He was there through countless nights of insignificance and heartache.

He was there through health challenges that left me too ashamed to leave the house.

He was there through estrangement and loss and humiliation and my miscarriage and my struggle to conceive our promised child.

And he was there for the victories, the redemption, the healings and miracles, the unspeakable joy and rejoicing at God’s faithfulness in our lives. He was right there with me at the foot of the cross.

This other husband isn’t my sweet Savior, but he feels like my Savior’s arms. He feels like my Savior’s chest. In that sense, he isn’t a pillow at all.

He’s not just the place where I meet God.

He’s the place where I experience Him.

Do you have such a place?

If not, you need one… more than ever in these uncertain times. And it doesn’t have to be a pillow.

I have a friend who would pray in her closet. She pounded that carpet with her fists, wrestling with God on her knees. And when they replaced the carpet in her house, she kept that swatch from the back room. Too many precious tears had been planted there, invested in the providence of a mighty God who turns our tragedies into triumphs.

Really, my other husband isn’t a shabby, worn-out, raggedy old pillow. He is the Husband of my soul. He is my Savior, my Heavenly Father, my Redeemer, my Deliverer, my most trusted friend. He is beautiful and pristine and perfect. And I meet Him at a beautifully broken alter every day, an alter that looks a lot like me. And you.

Yes, we are like this alter.

We’re bruised and broken, tattered and torn. We have many stitches and scars from the miles we’ve worn. But the husband of our souls runs to meet us every morn. He won’t get rid of us. He doesn’t despise the scratches and scabs. He cherishes every blemish. And He uses them for our good and His glory.

He cherishes our scars.

He cherishes every broken place, every wound, every disappointment, heartache and humiliation.

He cherishes you.

Find a place to meet with your other husband today.

He’s waiting…