We don’t always get a choice when we start a new season of life.

Someone you love is diagnosed with cancer. Or you are diagnosed with cancer.

Your boss fires you. Or your spouse walks out on you.

You lose everything in a tornado. Or in a fatal car crash.

There are countless circumstances that can dictate the end of one season and the beginning of another. Circumstances that form a line between “the way things were” and “the way things are now…indefinitely.”

As Ecclesiastes 3:1 says for every activity under the heavens, there’s a season–we’re always living one out. Good or bad.

Sometimes, we make decisions that can (and will) immediately change the trajectory of our life, which ultimately leads to the unfolding of a new season.

We make an impressive discovery or resolve at work that leads to a huge promotion.

We absentmindedly swerve our vehicle into another highway lane and clip a motorcyclist we couldn’t see during the quick glimpse in our mirrors.

We take a job across the country.

We tear our ACL playing basketball with the kids in the driveway.

For me, my season-turning born from the decision to divulge a secret to my wife. Something that didn’t feel too secretive at first, because it didn’t totally feel too…wrong. But that’s how all extramarital relationships go, right?

In September 2009, about 14 weeks into a relationship with a co-worker that went from, “You and her need to figure out a way to work together” in May to blatant flirtation in June and physical “intimacy” in July, I finally realized this whole thing was only destined to get worse if I didn’t blow all of this up and bring it into the wide open.

I had tried to stop the relationship dozens of times before. Tried talking with her and rationalizing with her. She (also married with child) agreed. But when no one’s watching (because no one knows to watch) and the thrill of being a part of something “sexy” that’s just between you and someone else is right in front of you every day, it’s impossible to face those demons alone in the dark. And you are alone because you’ve decided to not let anyone else in.

Could I have kept it a secret forever? Maybe. I don’t know that she would have ever told her husband. He worked in the same office we did (even!). It would have been super-messy for her to bring that to the surface. So, I convinced myself that God’s grace is enough to take care of my sins. And, for a short, miserable season through August and early September 2009, I tried to convince myself that I was forgiven and, thus, free from my sinful burdens–and any real need to bring this up to anyone in my circle. God and the woman and I dealt with it. We’re good.

And this is what I learned on the night of September 5th, 2009 is called “false repentance.” Interestingly enough, I was supposed to lead my church Sunday School class through Chapter 5 of the book we were reading through the next morning on this exact topic of false repentance. The more I read, the more my heart pounded. Did God forgive me for my infidelities? He’s an amazing Father and yes He did. Did God have big things in store for me and my life and my family? Yes he did. Could we go through the rest of our lives with a secret? Yes. Would I be stealing from her? Yes. Is stealing disobedient? Yes. Does God honor disobedience? No.

So, I had a decision to make, lying next to my wife that night. My wife, who had just two weeks prior given birth to our second child. That night was among the worst of my life. Sweat poured out of me. I couldn’t get physically comfortable. I was too tired to cry and too wired to sleep. I tried to rationalize and thought of dozens of worse-case scenarios. They were all worse-case. A best-case scenario was still going to suck, bad.

Ultimately, it came down to this: I can not tell her about my adultery and go on living the rest of our lives together with a secret. Because there’s a secret inbetween us, we’ll never experience maximum-level intimacy in our marriage. In fact, that intimacy will continue to decay over time, most likely. It may rise up now and then, but it’d never rise over maybe 50%. We’d peak at a 50% intimacy level. OR, I get it all out now. Drop our current intimacy level (surely) to 0% and, at LEAST over time, have a chance at 100% with her. One hundred percent intimacy would never be possible if I didn’t share what was going on.

So I did. Early the next morning.

As expected, she was stunned and angry and indignant. I was scared, self-protective (defensive) and mostly numb to her. We’d gone through similar things like this before. I had dropped a bomb on her 18 months earlier about a couple hours once spent with a woman that turned into more than a conversation. She almost seemed to expect this might happen again. Not even two hours after I shared the news, she had packed the kids in our Highlander and taken off for her parent’s house in Michigan, just as I expected she would.

I cried as she left, but I didn’t really feel sad. Just scared of what all of this was about to mean. I knew she was gone, but was sure she’d come back and, over a lot of time and pain and truth, we’d work this out.

That never happened. And this is how a new season begins.