I recently made this family favorite. The first two batches came out perfectly. On the third and final batch, the kitchen timer did not go off. I use this timer for all sorts of cooking and baking projects. It is the type where you rotate the dial past the time you want and turn back to the exact number of minutes desired. It ticks like a time bomb and rings as a school bell at day's end.

My internal timer went off before I smelled burning, but the cookies were definitely a few moments past the point of no return.

What's this metaphor got to do with life and infidelity recovery?

Just this: even when we, the betrayed, have used our best ingredients from the supermarket, when we have followed—carefully and with lots of love—the recipe for cookies (or life), sometimes the timer doesn't work, and the cookies don't turn out.

There is joy in the doing because we know we will enjoy the cookies, and so will our family. We set the trusty timer, put the cookies in preheated oven and continue to go about our life at earshot of the timer's brrrriiiiiinnnnngggg. But it never comes. And we're left with burnt cookies.

Was it a mistake to count on the timer's reliability when it had not been unreliable in the past?

Perhaps the most doubtful baker would keep an eye on her wristwatch to be sure that the timer goes off. Or maybe those of us who have had timers fail us in the past would be more likely to use the backup plan.

Regardless, our cookies have been burnt.

Our marriage as we knew it is over. It will never be the same. Even if we are fortunate enough to have a spouse who eventually takes full responsibility, makes amends on an ongoing basis, and becomes the person we thought we married (or better!), we might never trust completely, tenderly, innocently again. We will never have a marriage untainted by betrayal. We have been changed down to a cellular level.¹

It's an end, a loss, and it's sad—like saying goodbye to our kindergartner on his first day is difficult and heartrending, like tossing the final rose on the coffin of a parent or beloved friend is unimaginably painful. Endings can be anything from bittersweet to just plain awful. Grief. Sucks.

Sure, there are those first two batches of sweet, delightful memories. But this dark, bitter batch leaves an aftertaste in our mouth, even if it is still edible. We never want to go there again.

We have been burned—badly. About as deeply and painfully as any experience in life. Infidelity changes you.

The next time I make peanut butter cookies, even if my timer has resumed its apparent reliability, I will be more careful, more watchful, use a backup plan. Even if I was to throw out the old timer and get a new one, I would be reminded to be careful. I would not trust completely, perhaps for a long time—maybe forever—that the timer wouldn't fail me. I am more clear-eyed, more realistic, more mature.

We will surely and truly never be the same.

We will be wiser, more careful, less trusting. We will also be more appreciative of all the batches of cookies that are to come. We are grateful for the timer and even more grateful for the sweet results. We have been forewarned. No timer, no man, no woman is failsafe. We can do everything right but still have those we rely on fail us.

It is part of life: Disappointment. Death. Birth. Growth after betrayal. Growth after the longest winter of discontent.

There is hope. As we grieve the losses, as our formerly unfaithful repairs, as we invest in listening, empathy and compassion, we can once again grow as individuals and as a couple. We can also choose to use this as an opportunity to grow, regardless of the outcome of our marriage, to be even better, stronger, wiser.

Would I ever consider quitting my love of baking because I had a bad batch or even a season of oven failures? No. Love and cookies are too important, too vitally special to me and my life. Even if our post-pandemic world looks different, even if we are fundamentally changed by disappointments and losses, we can grow into more loving and compassionate human beings. We can choose gratitude for all the blessing of this life.

We can savor the fruits, the cookies, of our labors again if we let ourselves risk failure. We all risk when we love. We all risk every day when we get out of bed in the morning. Life is inherently risky, especially if we have the courage to reach for our dreams, if we choose to love. We all risk for what is good. We all hurt when what was good disappoints us. Especially when we did everything we could to make it right.

But peanut butter cookies—and love—are worth it.