Tag Archives: marriage

The Symphony of Family

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Every family is a symphony. Every member is a skilled musician with a unique instrument in hand. Every moment is a song, and every word is a note carrying its melody. Early last week, the Thoma family’s ensemble just grew by one performer. Preston Michael took his seat among us, and as you might imagine, for this grandpa, his promise is most rapturous.

I got to meet him the day after he was born. His dad—my son, Joshua—introduced us. I didn’t get to greet Preston properly, though. He’s currently in the NICU, and he’ll likely be there for a few more days. Nevertheless, at the time, his wriggling fingers, crinkly nose, and peeking glances were silent greetings that sang straight into my heart—a kind of resonance that only children and the angels who guard them can produce (Matthew 18:10). I finally got to hold him yesterday, and what a joy it was.

I can promise you that I intend to be the kind of grampa whose hug is felt long after I’ve let go.

With Preston’s birth came an in-rushing of familiar sensations. The day after he was born, Joshua and I talked about it while Jennifer and Lexi went down the hall for a turn with him. We spoke as only fathers can. I wondered aloud something like, “When you were born, I remember experiencing a particular sensation. It was a sudden awareness—almost a presence—something I felt like I could reach out and touch if I wanted to.” I told Joshua that when I first saw him, I knew everything in my life would be different, that nothing would ever be the same again, and that whatever happened from here on out, I was all in for him. I loved him. He was family.

Joshua confirmed the sensation. I’m not surprised. I imagine that, for most parents, the moment their child arrives—finally intersecting with the world in a touchable way—it is an event like none other. In a sense, even though the Earth still revolves around the sun, there’s a shift in gravity’s center. The child becomes the middle, a luminescent joy around which all other planets must spin. Indeed, as it was when I first became a father, it was the same for Joshua. Everything was different now, and no matter what the future held, trusting Christ, Josh knew it was going to be incredible.

We both admitted it wouldn’t be easy. In that moment, roles reverted. I was the dad again, and he was the son, with both of us recalling the challenges as we knew them. We acknowledged times when Josh made life more complicated and times when I wasn’t the best parent I could’ve been. Still, we returned to where we started.  There we were, acknowledging that the lack of ease doesn’t negate the joy of parenting. If anything, it serves to remind us even more of family’s wonderfulness.

I’ve always believed that while God has fashioned some indescribably splendid things, of them all, family is one of His best. He brings two very different people together, a man and a woman, and from their union, life! However, not just human life (which, of course, is the wonder above all others), but instead the actual experience of living—the lived reality of vocation and recreation and relationships and all the things that a human experiences. The thing about family, however, is that while we’re out and about in the world living, even as that same world will so often be vicious and unforgiving, there will always be a group of people—a place—where living assumes love and where the cardinal rule of governance is forgiveness. In other words, God has designed the human family to be reminiscent of Himself. When everything around you is coming undone, or when you’ve been as unlovable as you can be, there will be someone willing to take you in, forgive you, and continue to love you.

The writer George Bernard Shaw, while he was a philosophical and spiritual mess, managed to get something right when he wrote that “family is but an earlier heaven.” In a way, Christians know at least two deeper truths in this.

First, we know that marriage, the institution that establishes families, is a glorious image of the Gospel itself. Saint Paul described marriage as a mysterious representation of something much grander: the relationship between Christ and His bride, the Church (Ephesians 2:32). Go anywhere else in Paul’s writings, and you’ll see this relationship is what it is because of the forgiveness won and exacted by the Groom, Jesus.

Second, we know family can at least be an atom-sized glimpse of heaven because, as I mentioned before, love and forgiveness are a family’s glorious essentialities. This is to say, the Gospel of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection show us a family established by grace born from devoted love. Born into this by baptism into faith, heaven becomes our rightful home. As believers, we’re those whose robes have been washed and made white in the blood of the Lamb (Revelation 7:14). By this, we belong, not because of anything we’ve done, but because of what God has done for and to us.

In short, God adopted us as His children (Galatians 3:26, Romans 8:14-15). He made us family. And now, no matter where His believers are from or what scars their pasts inflicted, God always takes in His family.

I don’t know what Preston’s future holds. But I do know he’s been born into a family that loves him, one that knows its frailties, and because of those insufficiencies, things won’t always be easy. And yet, God stands at the podium. With baton in hand, He’s conducting with grace-filled movements, coaxing from His white-robed orchestra such lovely sounds. It’s a divine composition of His care, ringing out melodies that sound like “I love you,” and “I’m sorry,” and “I forgive you,” and “It’s good to see you,” and “I’m glad you’re home,” and so many more. Preston now has a seat on this stage, and like everybody else in the orchestra and audience, I can’t wait to hear him play.

In the Presence of Greatness

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I was in the presence of greatness on Thursday evening. I genuinely mean this. Although, I should qualify my words. I know plenty of great people, folks I admire. But their greatness doesn’t necessarily make me nervous. In this particular instance, other than the typical sense of extreme inadequacy and complete unworthiness I so often feel while serving during holy worship, it was the first time in a very long time that I found myself awestruck while standing beside another human being.

The first time I remember feeling it was at my wedding. When Jennifer came around the corner from the narthex and into the nave, my whole body responded. It was as if all of it had suddenly decided, “You don’t deserve this woman.” And yet, there was another, more powerfully gripping sense from somewhere else that nudged, “Rejoice. She is a gift of the Lord.”

Another time I felt somewhat bumbling beside greatness was the first time I met Jack Phillips, the cakebaker from Colorado who has spent the last decade of his life enduring the most dreadful attacks by the LGBTQ, Inc. jackboots for his faithfulness to Christ. Just being around him was a privilege. Going out to lunch and talking with him—really talking—now, those were meals in which my chewing and swallowing required total concentration. Forget the body’s involuntary reflexes. Concentrate, Chris. You’re in the presence of greatness.

This past Thursday, thanks to my great friend Jason Woolford (who, by the way, is running for the 50th District seat in the Michigan House and has my full support), I was privileged to sit beside similar greatness. His name was Jon Turnbull.

Jon is a 38-year-old retired Army Major. He is blind. He is partially burned. He has limited hearing. I did a little research into his life, and I learned he endured more surgeries than most people I know combined. He has spent countless days hospitalized. I can’t even begin to fathom the number of hours he has spent in physical and mental rehabilitation.

I offered the opening prayer at Jason’s event. Major Turnbull got up to speak right after me. His father led him to the podium. He told his story. He (a Captain at the time) and four others in his special forces team, one of whom was an interpreter, were in Syria assisting in the efforts to reopen schools and refurbish and resupply the hospitals. Until one day, a suicide bomber approached and detonated himself beside Turnbull and the others in his team. All but Turnbull were killed. The title of his book, Zero Percent Chance, tells you what the folks on the scene expected of the one soldier who was barely alive. And in a way, they were right. He died and then revived three times on the way to and during emergency surgery. 

After he spoke—which he did in a comfortably disarming way, acknowledging his own dry humor—another gent stood up, grabbed a guitar, and led us in singing the National Anthem. Turnbull’s father led his son back to his seat and helped aim his salute toward the flag. We all sang together. I could barely get the words out. By the time we made it to “gave proof through the night that our flag was still there,” which occurs lyrically right after Francis Scott Key’s description of the barrage against Fort McHenry he witnessed, I was at emotional capacity. I couldn’t sing the rest. I was mere inches away from a man living the daily toll required by Key’s red-glaring rockets and bursting bombs.

After the anthem, we sat down. I reached to Turnbull’s dad, patted his shoulder, and smiled. Surprised at first, he smiled back. I didn’t dare pat Turnbull’s shoulder. I didn’t deserve to be near him, let alone touch him. A humble man, I’m sure he would say differently.

I mentioned before that Turnbull’s words were comfortably disarming. I think this was true because he did two things in particular. First, he made sure his listeners understood he loved America and he wanted to be one of its protectors. He knew the dangers involved, and yet, he wanted to stand in the gap. He wanted to get between the ones he loved and the bad guys. He wanted to be the one awake on the tower so that we could sleep peacefully. He didn’t say it that way, but that’s essentially what he said. I think that eased the audience away from sadness and any potential guilt toward gentler gratefulness.

The second thing he did was express his faith in Christ. He didn’t parade it. He simply sprinkled it here and there (Colossian 4:6), but it was enough to show that Christ had never been just a part of his life. His faith was as real as his wounds. And so, at the podium, he gave thanks to the Lord for His grace and assured everyone listening that God obviously preserved him for a reason, even if only to encourage the rest of us to trust in the same way during inexplicable suffering. Again, he didn’t necessarily say it that way, but that’s what he said.

It was all incredibly Christological.

Anyone who reads my scribblings on occasion is likely familiar with the following term: Gospel lens. I sometimes remind readers to view the world deliberately mindful of Christ’s person and work. Doing this, you’ll see things you didn’t before. C.S. Lewis so famously said, “Every Christian is to become a little Christ.” Luther said the same thing. That said, I think Turnbull was a little Christ in his vocation without even realizing it, ultimately becoming a reminder of the One who saved the whole human race. Indeed, he wasn’t necessarily eloquent. Still, there was a Gospel resonance in his words. Turnbull’s story was almost entirely directed toward concern for others. His faithfulness reflected the story of the Savior, Jesus, who wanted to get between us and all that could destroy us. Our Lord did so fully aware of the dreadful consequences. And yet, Christ’s plan to save us did not include rubbing our noses in the guilt-ridden grime of our sinful filthiness, reminding us that He had to die for an inherently thankless world. Instead, Christ brings consolation. He gives a Gospel that replaces guilt with gladness and shame with thankfulness. It preaches into our hearts that Jesus wanted to be the Savior. He loved us, and that love establishes and ultimately produces an otherworldly ability to endure against “the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air,” giving proof through this world’s night that our Lord is still and always there (Matthew 28:20).

Turnbull had to leave the event relatively soon after he spoke, so I didn’t get the chance to talk with him. At some point, I’ll reach out to him. I’d like the people in my congregation to meet him and experience what I experienced for themselves. In the meantime, we go forward as God’s thankful people, ready to be little Christs for others (Ephesians 5:1). We do this because we believe. Believing comes with risks. We know what they are (John 16:2). And yet, we go. Somehow, we can stand in the gap against a suicide-bombing world doing everything it can to rid us from the earth. A faith like that is not shaky, shrinking at the first sign of trouble. Instead, it can speak alongside Saint Paul, saying, “For if we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord. So then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s” (Romans 14:8).

I started this morning’s jaunt by saying I was in the presence of greatness this past Thursday. I don’t intend to lessen what I’ve said. Still, Christ gets the final word on greatness. Knowing we’ll apply greatness to those who really stand out—for example, someone like John the Baptist—Jesus said things like, “Truly, I say to you, among those born of women there has arisen no one greater than John the Baptist. Yet the one who is least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he” (Matthew 11:11). The Lord’s reference to the “least in the kingdom” is a wink to something He’d say later: “Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:3-4).

In other words, the world is filled with impressive people. Indeed, they exhibit unique forms of greatness. But child-like faith is true greatness.

Indeed, being around Jon Turnbull on Thursday was an exceptional experience. Still, there’s rarely a moment when I’m not in the presence of greatness. Surrounded by believers, a pastor’s life is quite privileged in that sense, one that is so often nudged, “Rejoice. These people are gifts of the Lord.”

Marriage’s Yoke

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There’s no other way to say it except that the Thoma family has been stretched too thinly for several months. With homeowner insurance claims hovering since the beginning of summer and a schedule so robust that not even a nine-day week could accommodate all the demands, speaking only for myself, there’ve been times when all I could do was sit and stare at my mental horizon, wondering what else might appear on its ridge intent on challenging me to a duel.

Of course, there’s always someone or something willing to try.

I’m glad I have Jennifer. I’m thankful for my kids. When I’m slipping, Jennifer’s there. When she’s exhausted, I’m there. When we’re both spent, the kids are there for both of us.

Thankfully, most of our house-related issues were restored in time to receive visiting family and friends for our son Joshua’s wedding this past Friday. We certainly were hopeful that things would come together in time. Had they not, I suppose the only appropriate response would’ve been, “Oh well. What can you say? What can you do?”

Either way, what a joy the event was! And how blessed we are to formally welcome his wife, Lexi, into the Thoma family and name. I say “formally” because Jennifer, Madeline, Harrison, Evelyn, and I have long since considered Lexi as a part of the family, ever so glad that God nudged her toward the necessary “yes” that would forever cement her to our lives. Even before yes or no were choices, setting the dinner table assumed preparing a place for Lexi, too, whether or not she could be there. That’s what a family does.

Joshua and Lexi already know these crucial family dynamics. However, they know them from a more youthful perspective. They’re now learning them from a Genesis 2:24 perspective. Indeed, Joshua remains a son, and Lexi remains a daughter. And yet, they’ve become their own family, the next generation. With this comes the fantastical joys and hum-drum drudgeries of husband and wife, and if God grants it, fatherhood and motherhood. If she didn’t already know it, Lexi was immersed this past Friday in what Heywood Broun meant when she said something about how men can build bridges across impossible chasms and throw railroads across barren landscapes and yet have the needs of a child when attempting to sew on a button. Joshua’s learning trajectory is similar. He just walked into an entirely new sphere of existence, one permanently and intimately familiar with Nietzsche’s tongue-in-cheek comment that when God created Eve, boredom was officially ended.

Suppose things go as they typically do in this life. If so, Joshua and Lexi are about to experience the kinds of things their parents have experienced. They’re about to endure insurance claims, emotional overextensions born from bursting schedules, and all the demands that can make life both exhilarating and acidic simultaneously. But here’s the good part. Like Jennifer and me, they’re in it together, yoked sturdily by Christ.

During the father-of-the-bride speech at the wedding, Mike, Lexi’s dad, shared a unique exchange between them not long after she and Josh began dating. I figure this gives me a moment’s license. I remember a conversation with Joshua in our kitchen a couple of weeks before he asked Lexi to marry him. It wasn’t necessarily a crossroads moment. It was a father and his adult son talking about married life, something that was clearly on Joshua’s mind. I remember Joshua was sitting on the counter near the sink. I was sitting on a stool near the island. Along the way, I commended him and Lexi for doing things rightly; that is, they were resisting the world’s temptation to live together outside of marriage. I know I said more than a few times how proud I was of them. I encouraged him to keep resisting, to continue in faithfulness to Christ. Faithfulness to Christ, no matter how out of pace with the world it might be, is always the better way (Luke 5:1-11). I encouraged him to continue rebelling against the culture’s marital preferences, especially those that, again, often seem so sensible.

I remember him being somewhat surprised by the core of the conversation, especially if his goal at that moment was to get a sense of how I might respond if he told me he would soon ask Lexi to marry him. I told him that when it comes to marriage, our society is backward. Unfortunately, lots of Christians have bought into the backwardness. Not only does the world think it makes sense for a couple to test-drive one another sexually before committing, but it insists that before marrying, each should get a few years of solo life under their belts, too. Moreover, before ever even thinking about proposing to a special someone, each should secure careers promising financial stability and multiplying assets, be free of student debt, maybe even own a home, and so many other ridiculously mammonous things that have nothing to do with the promises God weaves into holy marriage.

And so, I took a chance.

“You’re both pretty much on your way in life, right?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“It’s not like you don’t know where you’re going or what you’re hoping to do, right?”

“Yes.”

“So, how about this instead?” I continued, “Is Lexi the one God chose for you, and are you certain you’re the one God chose for her?”

“Absolutely. I have no doubt.”

“Is she a prize you’d give anything and everything to win over and over again through good times and bad for the rest of your life?”

“Absolutely.”

“Is Christ at the very heart and soul of who you want to be as a husband and father? Do you want Christ at the center of your marriage, and does Lexi want to be and do the same?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then, what are you waiting for?”

“Well, of course, we’ve talked about marriage, but we need to finish coll—”

“—Why not finish college together?”

“And we should probably make sure—”

“—Whatever comes your way, why not steer into it together? Whatever you need to get in place, why not build it together?”

I kept going, reminding him that Christians use the term “yoke” relative to marriage for a reason. Sure, we use it because the Bible uses it. But again, that’s because the Bible uses it for very good reasons. Each of the reasons understands Christ Himself as the yoke. Beyond this, the image becomes quite practical. To be yoked is to be paired—bound by something to someone in a way that keeps two individuals laboring together. This is true not only so that the pair holds the same pace, both pulling in the same direction, neither getting too far ahead nor behind the other. The yoke is there for the harder moments, too. When the day is at its darkest, and the task is most challenging—when the ground is uneven and bemired, when the job requires so much more than what an individual can muster alone, when a person becomes exhausted, eventually stumbling and falling—marriage’s yoking means someone will be there to lend strength and help lift you to your feet. And not just anyone, but someone the Lord, as the very yoke, is actively binding to you.

This is not the world’s understanding of the marital yoke. The world’s view is a self-invested and often quite cynical one. It chimes with Montaigne that wedlock “is a cage: the birds outside despair to get in and those within despair to get out.” As such, it insists on absolute individualism unrestricted by any yoke whatsoever. And if an individual happens to fall prey to marriage, according to its confused mentality, you don’t even have to marry a human. Some guy married his laptop a few years ago. Another woman married her cat. Some guy in Japan married a robot. The world’s view of marriage is incredibly skewed. It’s more about what someone or something else can do for me to make me happy.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Marriage is designed to bring delight. The Lutheran Rite for Holy Matrimony affirms that God ordained marriage “so that man and woman may find delight in one another.” But again, by delight, the world means the taking kind, not the giving kind. When one can no longer provide what the other considers valuable for taking, the relationship’s so-called “love” grows cold, and the marriage comes undone.

A marriage built on self-sacrifice, of being outwardly invested in and for another person—as seeing him or her as a prize you’d give anything and everything to win over and over again through good times and bad for the rest of your life, just as the Lord looked on His fallen creation in an utterly selfless way—such a marriage has something others do not.

It has muscle for the long game.

By muscle, I mean it has Godly devotion, humility, and forgiveness. By long game, I mean the marriage will have everything it needs to make it through the impossible moments and, ultimately, find itself fulfilling the vow “until death us do part.” It’ll do this, landing at heaven’s doorstep unscathed. Well, maybe not unscathed. It’ll have its scars. But only the soldiers who’ve endured the battles have scars.

If this is the divinely mature framework already in place between two young people in love—real, Godly love—what’s the point in waiting? They’re already a million miles past the world’s marital intellect or capability. More than that, they have what it takes to be a bright-beaming and resilient example of what marriage can and should be.

Joshua and Lexi are young. So what? I’m not the least bit worried about them. Honestly, and as I shared in the wedding sermon, my only real concern is what the eventual grandkids (if God so allows) will call me. I can imagine Jennifer being okay with the classical title “Grandma.” I had something else in mind for me. Imagine if you can…

“Good morning, Billy,” the first-grade teacher might say to the little one flanked by and holding hands with Jennifer and me on Grandparents Day at his school. “Who are these two you brought with you today?”

“This is my Grandma and Sensei!”

A Shelter, Fortress, and Resting Place

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Near the end of the Lutheran marriage liturgy, a prayer is prayed. Technically, three prayers are prayed. The first is for the groom and bride. The second is for all marriages and the homes they produce. The third is the Lord’s Prayer. The prayer I’m thinking about right now is the second prayer. It reads:

“O God, our dwelling place in all generations, look with favor upon the homes of our land. Embrace husbands and wives, parents and children, in the arms of Your love, and grant that each, in reverence for Christ, fulfill the duties You have given. Bless our homes that they may ever be a shelter for the defenseless, a fortress for the tempted, a resting place for the weary, and a foretaste of our eternal home with You; through Jesus Christ, Your Son, our Lord, who lives and reigns with You and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.”

I suppose the prayer comes to mind for a few reasons. First, my son, Joshua, and his fiancé, Lexi, will start their premarital counseling classes with me soon. Anyone who wants to be married in this congregation must take these classes. Being related to the pastor provides no exception. Of course, I did offer to step aside and let someone else do it. Nevertheless, they insisted that I be the one, and I’m happy to help.

Perhaps the second reason is that very soon, two longtime and beloved members of this congregation will celebrate their 65th wedding anniversary.

Wow. Sixty-five years.

We can all admit that such marital spans are almost unheard of today. Not necessarily because it’s sixty-five years, but because marriage has more or less become disposable. Before I continue, I should say right away that I appreciate the folks who work hard to preserve marriage, especially those whose marriages may have been undone by divorce. It’s a sensitive subject, I know. Still, I commend the ones who did as their Lord required. They endured a proverbial meatgrinder, pursuing every avenue to preserve the sacred bond. Emotionally thrashed, they didn’t give up, even when they had the biblical license to do so. They kept their eyes fixed on what God said was better. They’ve more than demonstrated their verve as spouses. They’ve more than proven their desire for a home described by the above prayer, one that is “a shelter for the defenseless, a fortress for the tempted, a resting place for the weary….”

I suppose these things relate to another reason this prayer came to mind. Each time I’ve prayed it during the marriage liturgy, I’ve been moved by the words. In a sense, it isn’t necessarily describing a perfect home, but instead, the kind of home produced by marriage to a perfect friend. Or maybe a better way to say it would be the home God makes possible when He pairs a person with a genuine best friend.

For as uncertain and cruel as so many circumstances and relationships in this world can be, in marriage, God provides that one unfailing friend with whom to endure all of it. “It is not good that the man should be alone” (Genesis 2:18). God was right. Speaking from experience, my wife has been a reliable shelter whenever I’ve needed refuge from the pelting world. Through times of seemingly endless attacks, Jennifer has been a fortress. Through one exhausting event after another, going home to my bride has been the fulfillment of promised rest.

I’ll bet if I asked the folks who’ll be celebrating their sixty-fifth year of marriage about these things, they’d likely agree.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Even the best marriages aren’t perfect. Whether one day or sixty-five years into the marriage, trouble is likely to appear. There’s a saying that few men or women are so perfect that their spouses do not regret marrying them at least once daily. Maybe that saying bears a little bit of truth. Humans are born sinful. I can promise that I give Jennifer plenty of reasons for strapping me to a golf tee, pulling out her driver, and thwacking me into the woods. Of course, I’d never say the same thing about her—at least, not in print. (I’d likely need a sand wedge with her.) Still, with the Lord’s promised grace enveloping a marriage, the kind born from the person and work of Jesus Christ—a divine grace that immerses both the husband and wife in a tidal wash of daily forgiveness—not even the worst of marital catastrophes can parch such a relationship, let alone the annoyances that plague one day to the next.

This is what the above prayer means when it talks about being embraced in the arms of God’s love. It’s a good prayer. Of course, it stands in the shadow of the greatest prayer: the Lord’s Prayer. The Lord’s Prayer says all this and more, especially when you consider that everything it asks passes through the hope-filled words “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done….” If you’re familiar with Luther’s explanation in the Small Catechism, then you know that to ask for God’s kingdom to come is to pray that “our heavenly Father gives us His Holy Spirit, so that by His grace we believe His holy Word and lead godly lives….” To ask, “How is God’s will done?” is to hear Luther reply:

“God’s will is done when He breaks and hinders every evil plan and purpose of the devil, the world, and our sinful nature, which do not want us to hallow God’s name or let His kingdom come; and when He strengthens and keeps us firm in His Word and faith until we die. This is His good and gracious will.”

A marriage rooted in God’s mercy delivered by His Gospel Word for faith rests in the Savior’s wonderful embrace. His protective care is a sturdy bastion capable of withstanding the devil’s terrible assaults. This is true not because the spouse He gives in marriage is perfect but because the Lord is. With Him, a marriage has everything it needs. With Him, sixty-five years with the same person becomes an immeasurable life-long joy shared with a best friend.

Even at Walmart

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I hope you don’t mind, but I have marriage on the brain this morning. Jennifer and I will celebrate our 26th wedding anniversary this week.

I don’t know about you, but the further we travel into marriage’s future, the more content it seems we are to let the occasion be the occasion amid life being life. In other words, we’ll likely go out for dinner to celebrate, but we’ll also just as likely stop at Walmart on the way home for milk, cereal, toilet paper, or anything else a family of six might need. It sounds inconsequential, I know. Some people celebrate by going on trips. Others spend lavish amounts on gifts. That’s not really our way. Last year, we hoped to get away for a few days (since it was our 25th anniversary), but too many other things prevented us from doing so. Several weddings were scheduled, the English District Convention occurred, Vacation Bible School unfolded, and a whole host of other obligations landed on us. We barely managed to sneak away for dinner on a day close to our actual anniversary.

In the end, I think Jen and I have realized that no matter what we might do to celebrate, one exceptional day, while nice, can never really outmatch the everyday blessings we enjoy. Theodor Seuss Geisel—better known as Dr. Suess—was close to describing what I mean when he said, “You know you are in love when you don’t want to fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.” I get his point. There’s very little that exceeds love’s discovery. In its moments, life and its possibilities exceed imagination.

One problem with Geisel’s words is that they don’t completely emerge from emotion’s shifting realm. I’d be on board if he defined reality as a willingness to completely spend oneself for the other in both good and bad times. That would better describe the profound mystery of marital love. It’s one reason why the traditional marriage vows include phrases like “for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health….” By the way, in my experience, people who choose to write their own marriage vows, typically turn them into syrupy emotional goo, ultimately missing the mark on what the vows are designed to communicate. For the record, don’t even think about writing your own vows if you want me to preside over your wedding. The longstanding traditional ones are more than sufficient, mainly because they do a fine job of communicating a commitment to something other than self. Two phrases, in particular, cement this commitment: “till death us do part” and “according to God’s holy will.” The previous phrases of the vow set reality’s tempo, acknowledging that there will be good times and bad times. These two insist that emotional love—purely human love—is not equipped to navigate real life to its very end. But love aligned with God’s will is. Love aligned with God’s will can stare death in the face.

Jesus told us straightforwardly what God’s will is. He said, “For this is the will of my Father, that everyone who looks on the Son and believes in him should have eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day” (John 6:38-40). These words are not far from Jesus’ gentle description to Nicodemus of why God would send His Son in the first place: “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him” (John 3:16-17).

God knew that human love would be forever insufficient. Loving God and neighbor rightly—the Law’s strict demand—would never be met. But God’s love can do it. And so, that same love moved Him to send His Son. Christ fulfills the demand by His perfect life according to the Law and His sacrificial death on the cross. Jesus demonstrates that God’s love is a perfectly committed, selfless love. It insists that no matter what’s required, the self will never mean more than one’s beloved, even if it means completely emptying itself of all divine prerogatives and going down with the ship in death. Christ did this. And why? Because He loves you. This love is epicentral to His will. Taking a spouse “according to God’s holy will” is to pledge that God’s redeeming love—His forgiveness—will be the marriage’s template. When this is true, a marriage can steer through and around obstacles that might otherwise terrify human love.

But still, there’s more.

Regardless of what the culture believes, God established marriage. He owns it. As such, and whether anyone realizes it, His will naturally permeates its design. First and foremost, marriage is to be a divine snapshot of the Gospel. Saint Paul says as much, describing marriage as a mysterious image of Christ, the Groom, and the Church, the bride—an otherworldly relationship established and maintained by impenetrable commitment. It begins with the One who submits Himself to the death of deaths for the bride. Empowered by that Gospel love, it results in the bride submitting herself in all things, not as one cruelly shackled to an overlord, but as one who loves the Groom for all that He is and has done to make her His own (Ephesians 5:1-2, 22-33).

In a natural law sense, God’s inherent will remains. Marriage is the essential building block of every society throughout human history. The union of one man and one woman—inseparably committed and typically producing children—provides worldwide stability. Everything necessary for an ordered perpetuating society can be found within marriage’s boundaries. Saint Paul hints at how important societal order is when he instructs Timothy to pray for and intercede with the authorities put in place to manage it. He insists Christians do these things so that “we may lead a peaceful and quiet life, godly and dignified in every way. This is good, and it is pleasing in the sight of God our Savior, who desires all people to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth” (1 Timothy 2:2-3).

Paul’s point: God wants societal order so that the Gospel will spread.

Marriage not only stabilizes societies, but it is a fundamental conduit in each for communicating the Gospel from one generation to the next. When a society’s marriages begin steering away from God’s holy will—when devotion to self overtakes commitment to spouse and children, when marriage’s biological components become confused, when its sanctity becomes negotiable or irrelevant—the blocks begin to crumble, and the conduits fracture. When that happens, the Gospel—the message of the only kind of love that lasts into and through death—begins slipping into obscurity, eventually securing societal doom.

As I said, Jennifer and I will celebrate 26 years next week. We’ll likely celebrate by doing something special together. Still, even if we don’t—even if life suddenly gets in the way—the marriage won’t be any lesser than before. This is only true because the marriage is “according to God’s holy will.” With His love ordering each of our days, the inevitable road through a reality of good and bad, fading physicality, and unpredictable emotional seasons will continue to prove far better than dreams. It’s the kind of love that finds itself just as refreshed and content holding hands in the breakfast cereal section at Walmart as it does in a classy restaurant.