Love Well

We stood there once, eyes clear and hearts wide, repeating words that sounded simple enough to carry…

For better or worse.
For richer or poorer.
In sickness and in health.
To love and to cherish.
As long as we both shall live.

We said them like a promise, and we meant them like a hope, but we had no idea how they would actually be lived.

I have been thinking a lot about our vows.

The words have taken on a different meaning in a quiet, heavy way that comes when you are watching people you love walk through something hard. Two dear friends, standing in very different places, have been living out words that once sounded simple. Alongside them, I have found myself watching my parents in a different season of those same promises, where life has become something other than what they once imagined. Somewhere in all of this, those vows have settled differently in me. They feel less like something we once promised and more like something we are continually learning to live.

No one tells you that for worse does not arrive all at once. It shows up in quiet layers… long days that blur into longer seasons, tension that settles into the body, and conversations that circle the same worry. It is there in the nights when sleep does not come easily because your mind keeps rehearsing what could go wrong. For worse looks like stress that lingers, bills that do not quite line up, and decisions that carry weight. It is the kind of responsibility that does not clock out at the end of the day.

For poorer is not always about money, though sometimes it is. It exists in the moment when you both look at the numbers and realize something has to give. It is found in the quiet agreements, the sacrifices no one applauds, and the choosing of later for things you once thought would be now. It is learning that provision is not always abundance, but sometimes just enough.

In sickness and in health sounds poetic until it becomes personal. It becomes real when the phone call comes, when the appointment is scheduled, and when you find yourself sitting in a waiting room, holding your breath without realizing it. It is the way your hand finds theirs without thinking, the way time slows when the stakes feel high, and the silent prayers become whispers in hospital rooms.

This week, I have watched one friend walk through the unthinkable, saying goodbye when she thought there would be more time. In this moment, I feel a love so strong it could never disappear. It lives on in the ordinary moments they built together, in the way he laughed and loved other people. It lives on in the familiar rhythms of these early unfamiliar days, and in the stories that will be told again and again, each time holding a little more tenderness than before. It is present in the memories that rise without warning, the ones that bring both tears and a quiet kind of gratitude. It is carried in the life they shared, which cannot simply end but continues to echo through everything she brings forward. Their love is not gone. It has been gathered and will be carried in a different way now… steady, present, and remembered.

I have also watched another friend stand in the fragile space between fear and hope… waiting, praying, and holding on while her husband’s life was placed in someone else’s hands. There are no easy words for either of those places, only presence, only love, and only the quiet strength of vows being lived in real time.

In a quieter, slower way, I’m watching my parents begin to navigate a season where control slowly loosens its grip. Their bodies do not cooperate as they once did, decisions feel heavier, and the life they built together seems to ask something different of them now. There is a quiet humility in this season, a tenderness in learning to receive help, and a deep, steady love that does not need to announce itself to be seen. I’m sure it’s not the life they once imagined, but it is still a life they are walking through together, one day at a time.

To love and to cherish sounds like romance, but it is far more ordinary and far more sacred than that. It is choosing kindness when you are tired, staying in the conversation when it would be easier to walk away, and remembering who you are together, beneath the stress of one moment. It’s laughter that surprises you in the middle of hard seasons. It is the rhythm of shared life, with kids and parents and work and worry all tangled together, where you somehow remember to choose each other again and again.

As long as we both shall live feels different to me now, because I have seen what those words look like when they are carried all the way through, and I have seen what they look like when you are given more time than you thought you might have. Here, in the middle of my own marriage, which is not perfect or easy, but still everything I could want, I feel a deep, steady awareness of what we are holding and a growing need to make the most of the time we are given.

We are not just holding love as we once imagined it… we are holding love that has been tested, love that has stayed, and love that continues to choose. This love was not proven in the moment our vows were spoken, but in the life that followed. It is in the highs and the lows and in the quiet, unremarkable moments where we could have pulled away, but did not. Real love is steady and faithful. It is formed in the middle of everything life asks of you… and it remains, in the ways we live it and in the ways we carry it forward.

Lord, we come to you with full hearts this week.
For the love that has been lived fully and now rests in memory, we say thank you.
For the love that is walking through uncertainty, we ask for courage and peace.
For the love that surrounds us in ordinary moments, we ask for awareness so we do not miss it.
Teach us to love well, to cherish what we have, and to carry it forward with care.

Amen.