47 Years: Love and the Long Road of Grace

“Let love and faithfulness never leave you… write them on the tablet of your heart.” —Proverbs 3:3

Forty-seven years ago today, I walked down the church aisle on my father’s arm, heart pounding, eyes fixed on the curly-haired, blue-eyed man standing at the front. The sanctuary adorned with the colors of the ’70s: yellow ruffles swaying down the aisle and green tuxedos lined up like something from a vintage catalog. But I barely noticed. My gaze was locked on him. On us. On the life we were about to begin.

Two simple words, I do, ushered us into something far from simple: the sacred and lifelong covenant of marriage.

We were just kids, 17 and 19. Wide-eyed and wildly unprepared. We brought into our union more brokenness than we understood and far more immaturity than wisdom. We were idealistic, stubborn, hopeful, and unknowingly standing on the edge of something bigger than ourselves. Raised in homes where godly love had been absent or inconsistent, we entered marriage with few tools and plenty of baggage. By all appearances, we were fragile. And truthfully, we were.

But grace did what grit never could.

If marriage has taught me anything, it’s this: nothing will confront your selfishness more quickly. Nothing will sanctify you more thoroughly. It’s not a mirror that flatters, but one that exposes. It reveals how desperately you need Christ. And it reminds you—again and again—that love is not about fixing your spouse. It’s about God refining you.

I used to pray, “Lord, change him.” But in His tender mercy, God turned the mirror back toward me. What I saw wasn’t flattering. Pride, impatience, control, and a heart often more interested in being right than in being Christlike. The work of sanctification didn’t happen all at once. It still hasn’t. But through a thousand ordinary moments, the Lord has shaped us. And He’s still shaping us.

“This is about holiness, not happiness.”

I heard those words deep in my spirit more than once. They’ve steadied me when feelings faltered. They’ve reminded me that covenant love isn’t sustained by fleeting emotion; it’s anchored in eternal truth.

Forgiveness has become our daily rhythm. Not just one grand act, but thousands of quiet ones: the apology after a harsh word, the grace to overlook, the humility to yield. I’ve learned to kneel before the throne of grace before pointing fingers. I’ve learned to pray for my husband rather than about my husband. And I’ve learned I am not the Holy Spirit in his life nor is he in mine. Only God transforms.

“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” —Ephesians 4:32

What does love look like after nearly five decades?

It’s not roses and candlelight. It’s steadfastness. It’s showing up when it’s hard. It’s tenderness after tension, grace after grief. It’s his strong hands carrying my plate when mine tremble. It’s whispered prayers in hospital rooms, lingering glances across a table scattered with grandchildren’s laughter, and the comfort of a shared memory only we understand.

“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.” —1 Corinthians 13:7–8

It looks like choosing each other again and again. When it’s costly. When it’s inconvenient. When it would be easier not to.

It looks like legacy. Like watching our children build marriages of their own. It looks like faithful friendships, a church family we’ve served, and the quiet assurance that we’re part of something that is not just us.

“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.” —1 Peter 4:8

At our granddaughter’s wedding, we were the final couple left on the dance floor in the “longest-married” countdown. A somber moment with tears in my husband’s eyes. We held each other as the room clapped, but what filled our hearts wasn’t pride. It was awe. We know how rare this is. Not because we were strong, but because God has been.

Forty-seven years. That’s thousands of mornings waking to new mercies. Thousands of choices to stay, forgive, grow, believe. And through it all, God’s grace has not just carried us. It has changed us.

I love him more today than I did in 1978, not because love is easier, but because now I know what love costs. I thank God for the laughter, the storms, the quiet, ordinary Tuesdays. For the breaking that brought healing, and the wounds that taught us mercy. I thank Him for the future He still holds in His hands.

Because He’s not finished with us yet.