Amy’s Story: Fighting for Her Family
To read the first portion of Amy’s story, head here.
Two Stories Collide
From our first date in Atlanta to getting married in a quiet backyard ceremony, it all felt like a whirlwind. But when God puts two people together, you can’t always plan it out the way others expect.
Paul and my first date was in Atlanta, while he was filming a Clint Eastwood movie. We met at a little restaurant called Bula, and I showed up fully dressed to impress after a four-hour drive. Paul, on the other hand, looked like he had just walked out of a comic book store—wearing a Macho Man Randy Savage t-shirt and baggy board shorts. I laughed because, even though he didn’t seem to put much effort into his appearance, he had this sweet, gentle spirit that immediately drew me in.
We talked for hours about everything—our families, our siblings, our faith. He was so kind, honest, and generous. It didn’t take long for me to feel like I could trust him with my heart. Even when we went to see “The Lion King” live-action movie, I knew there was something real and lasting between us.
But life happened.
Paul flew to London to film Cruella, and I went back down to South Georgia for a project of my own. The pandemic hit. Suddenly, we were both on lockdown in different places, and everything felt uncertain. But in the strangest and most sacred way, that season of stillness became the soil where our relationship grew. We spent hours talking, FaceTiming, texting—really getting to know each other without all the noise or distractions.
Paul made me laugh like no one else could. He brought joy into spaces that had been quiet for far too long. It wasn’t long before we realized this wasn’t just a fling or coincidence—it was God’s timing. It felt easy, natural, and completely covered by grace. After years of waiting and wondering if real love existed, I finally felt like I had found my person in Paul.
“Paul made me laugh like no one else could.”
When Paul and I decided to take the next step and meet each other’s families, I couldn’t have anticipated what would happen next. While visiting my hometown in Georgia, Paul proposed to me in my childhood bedroom. It was simple, sweet, and perfect.
In July 2020, we got married on the front lawn of the house Paul was renting in West Hollywood. It wasn’t flashy or fancy—just a handful of close friends and family on Zoom—but it was exactly what we needed.
Two weeks after we said, “I do,” we found out we were pregnant. Everything was falling into place—or so I thought.
The Breaking Point
What I didn’t expect was the tension that started to build almost immediately after we got back from our honeymoon. There was this constant pull between Paul, me, and the struggle to balance family dynamics.
Instead of facing the issues together, we started to drift apart. Paul was feeling torn—pulled between me and his family. And to make matters worse, he was overmedicating. He was drinking wine, tequila, taking edibles, and hiding it all from me.
The Bible talks about leaving and cleaving when you get married, but Paul hadn’t fully “left.” He had an unhealthy loyalty to his family that was causing a rift in our marriage. I was carrying our first child, and here we were—just two months into marriage—already facing the possibility of falling apart.
One day, Paul got a call from his brother, and I could see it in his eyes—he was leaving. I asked him to stay, to talk things through, but instead, he walked out.
I was heartbroken, confused, and pregnant. I remember sitting in my car outside the post office, completely overwhelmed with emotion. I started yelling at the enemy—screaming, “You cannot have my family. You don’t get to have my family!”
That moment was a holy kind of desperation. I knew God had brought us together, and I wasn’t going to let the enemy tear us apart.
I knew marriage wasn’t going to be easy, but I never expected to face some of the darkest moments while pregnant with my first child. It was a battle for my marriage, my peace, and my purpose.
“It was a battle for my marriage, my peace, and my purpose.”
The War for My Family
After Paul and I separated, I did what I always do—I kept fighting. I was two months pregnant, my marriage was unraveling, and I found myself completely ghosted. Every effort to reach him was met with silence, but I couldn’t give up.
I texted him every day—sending scripture, reminding him that I loved him, that I was praying for us, that I still believed God wasn’t finished.
But Paul was gone. He was struggling with substances and an unhealthy attachment to his old life. For an entire month, while I carried our son, I didn’t hear from him. The only thing I did get was money. I knew he was in Canada, filming and spiraling. The man I loved had completely slipped away.
Then one day, Paul called. When we FaceTimed, I could tell something was off. I poured out my heart, hoping we could work things out, and then he said words that broke me:
“I filed for divorce.”
He told me that everyone around him said we’d made a mistake. But I knew this wasn’t just emotional—it was spiritual warfare.
Two days before that call, God had warned me: “This is the beginning of a war.” He told me to write down scriptures, and I posted them all over my bedroom wall around a picture of Paul and me from our engagement. Every day, I prayed those words over my home and over my baby.
One of the hardest moments came when I went for my first ultrasound. As I pulled into valet, full of excitement to hear our baby’s heartbeat, a process server handed me divorce papers.
It was like the wind had been knocked out of me. But even then, I refused to let go of hope.
I reached out to Paul’s pastor, and Paul agreed to counseling. We talked—really talked—for the first time in months. But soon after, silence again. From January to March, I heard nothing.
Then came the moment I had dreaded and prayed for: the birth of our son, Harris. Paul didn’t show up. I came home from the hospital alone, feeding my newborn in the quiet hours of the night, clinging to Jesus when I felt like I had nothing left.
Five weeks later, Paul came to visit. For a weekend, it felt like everything I’d prayed for. He held our son with tears in his eyes. But just as quickly, he pulled away. It was too much. He wasn’t ready. That was the last time I heard from him—until October.
To read the conclusion of Amy’s story, head here.
