It Matters how we See Something

by Irene Fambro

When Jesus had raised Himself up and saw no one but the woman, He said to her, “Woman, where are those accusers of yours? Has no one condemned you?” She said, “No one, Lord.” And Jesus said to her, “Neither do I condemn you; go and sin no more.” –John 8:10–11

I remember the day it happened. I can feel the uncomfortable metal school desk underneath me. The smell of middle school boys around me who had yet to grasp the importance of deodorant. The sound of the overhead transparency machine humming. The taste of pure dryness in my mouth as the teacher asked me a question. Oh, and of course, the sight of my teacher staring right at me and asking if I could read out loud the math problem displayed on the wall in front of me. I squinted. I tried to scoot further up in my seat to see if I could get closer. I mumbled and stuttered a bit, “Ummm . . . uhhhh.” I didn’t have an answer. It seems simple now. I should have been honest and said I couldn’t read the problem. But as an Egyptian growing up in Alabama, I spent my whole life trying not to be any more different than I already was. Yet, all my efforts did not hide the truth: I couldn't see the problem.

It matters how we see something. How I saw the math problem that day would greatly determine how I solved that problem. And I couldn’t see the problem no matter how hard I tried. Because on that day, I cared more about how people would see me if I had to wear glasses than if I couldn’t answer a problem.

It matters how we see something.

In John 8 we encounter a woman who was in pain. A woman who was in need. A woman defined by her present moment. Maybe that’s not how you remember her story. Most of the time she is called “the woman caught in adultery.” And that is how the people around her saw her, by her worst moment. If I’m being honest, I can do the same thing—see people through the lens of their worst moments. I noticed my problem the other day when I was listening to a sermon on Hebrews 11. At the mention of Abraham, I thought of how he lied about Sarah, which could have caused her to be violated by two kings. Later came David, and I thought about how he violated Bathsheba and murdered her husband. On and on the chapter mentions men and women of faith, and while the writer of Hebrews chose to mention their best moments, I saw their worst.

It matters how we see something.

Why did I see each character in the Bible from such a critical lens? Why do I tend to look at others in the same fashion? Maybe it’s because that is how I look at myself.

It matters how we see something.

In John 8, the religious leaders saw a woman in her worst moment and defined her by it. They did not care to find the man caught in adultery. Just her. They defined her worth and value by her sin. But Jesus saw things differently; love does that. Jesus saw a woman who was hurting. A woman who needed to be protected, defended, and safe.

They saw her sin. Jesus saw her pain.

They saw her consequences. Jesus saw her need.

They saw her present moment. Jesus saw her possible future.

The people around her demanded Jesus see her by her sin. But Jesus instead asked the people if they wanted to be seen by their sin. One by one they saw her, and they saw themselves. They saw her sin, and they saw their own. They saw from one perspective, but love offered a different point of view.

It matters how we see something.

So here I stand in my present moment with myself and with others. How will I choose to see them?

Will I choose to see their sin or their pain?

Will I choose to see their consequences or their need?

Will I choose to keep them tied to this present moment or look to their possible future?

It matters how we see something.

Love sees differently.

Our Story: From Betrayal to Redemption

To truly understand how far we've come, you have to know where we started—how the layers of our past shaped who we became, and how grace began to rewrite our future.

My Story (Erin):

I grew up in North Texas, in a typical home. When I was 15, my parents divorced. Much like other children, I learned early on how to survive rather than connect. I became fiercely independent, emotionally guarded, and deeply self-reliant.

I was young and I felt had no space to process the grief, no tools to heal. Instead, I buried my pain, blamed others, and carried a hardened heart into adulthood.

Then I met Brett. He seemed to be everything I lacked—secure, successful, steady. Without realizing it, I made him my anchor, expecting him to give me what only God could—identity, value, and wholeness.

Brett's Story:

I was raised in what many would call an ideal home. My mom stayed at home, my dad was a business owner. I became a driven, proud, and self-righteous individual, focused on achievements and my career.

When I met Erin, I was drawn to her confidence and boldness. She was electric—talented and fearless. I thought I could lead her, shape her, maybe even fix her. We married quickly, both of us carrying childhood wounds we hadn’t yet acknowledged, let alone healed.

Our Marriage Unraveling:

We married in 2011. I was walking away from my rodeo career and moving into unfamiliar roles. Brett was already established as a pilot. We didn’t understand how our unresolved pain, unrealistic expectations, and lack of communication would chip away at our foundation.

Without children to ground us, we drifted. We were successful in our careers but distant in our home. Slowly, we became more like business partners or roommates than husband and wife. I began to feel lonely, disconnected, and invisible. Brett buried himself in work. And we both stopped reaching for each other.

In 2022, during a business trip, I made a choice I never thought I would. A client gave me attention—nothing more than casual at first—but I began to overshare. It felt good to be seen. That emotional connection turned into an affair—both emotional and physical—that lasted five weeks.

Each step felt small, but the fall was steep. I told myself lies: that I was lonely, that Brett wouldn’t care, that it didn’t matter. But when I learned about limerence—this idea of intense infatuation driven by fantasy—it hit me. That’s what I was in. Not love. Not truth. Just escape. And I couldn’t bear the weight of the secret anymore.

Brett's Reaction:

When Erin confessed, I was shattered. I left immediately and filed for divorce days later. I clung to Scripture, justifying my choice. I was the victim. I had the right. I was done.

But I didn’t see how I’d been fading long before her confession. I had emotionally checked out. I stopped listening, stopped engaging, stopped pursuing. And not long after the affair, I fell into one of my own. I called it something else. I told myself it wasn’t the same. But it was a betrayal too—an emotional and physical escape of my own.

I wore strength like armor while living a double life. Meanwhile, Erin began to change. She leaned into therapy, support groups, prayer, and truth. She sent letters of apology to my family. She didn’t defend herself. She didn’t beg. She owned what she did and focused on who she was becoming.

Our Separate Journeys:

I, Brett stayed hidden in shame and pride. She stood in humility and repentance. And over time, I saw her transformation. Her consistency. Her faith. She invited me to attend a marriage ministry called ReEngage. I went to check a box—not to reconcile, but to appease.

But God met me there. In that room. In those weeks. He slowly chipped away at my pride, my self-righteousness, and my pain. I saw myself clearly for the first time. I saw my own need for grace.

Eventually, I confessed my own affair during our separation. I, Erin was devastated—but because God forgave the inexcusable in me, I knew I could forgive the inexcusable from Brett. I was initially very angry but decided to responded with grace. I choose not punish, but to give unmerited forgiveness. What reason should I continue the ongoing pain by holding on for a taste of revenge or justice? I was done with unnecessary suffering, I was ready to start healing. I stood in my marriage, firm with that resolve. And that moment changed everything.

Rebuilding Together:

We started from scratch—new boundaries, new routines, new honesty. We rebuilt our marriage brick by brick through daily connection, accountability, spiritual discipline, and therapy. We learned to validate instead of defend, to ask questions instead of accuse, to forgive instead of keeping score.

It wasn’t easy. It was painful and slow and often felt impossible like climbing Mount Everest backwards. But God met us in the ruins. We lost our reputation. We lost friendships. But we found something better—our identity in Christ and a new foundation for our marriage.

Why We Share This:

We don’t share this story to spotlight the failure. We share it because redemption is real. Because betrayal doesn’t have to be the end. And because healing is possible—no matter what side you’re on.

If you’re navigating infidelity, we see you. We’ve been there. We know the shame, the anger, the fear, and the doubt. But we also know that with God, nothing is beyond restoration.

At Commit & Conquer, we offer coaching, community, and Christ-centered tools for those walking through the pain of infidelity.

You are not alone. We’re here. Let’s walk it out together.