The first time I saw him, I was still in high school. This isn’t a high school sweetheart story, because he didn’t remember my name when I bumped into him a year later.
No, the first time we met, I was the only high school member of a college worship team making the two-hour drive to Nashville to an event where he was preaching. I remember two things about that trip: 1) he stood at the pulpit in front of several hundred people and preached about the glory of God, and 2) at the restaurant afterwards, he carried a little black bag that reminded me of a purse, which I thought was weird until he pulled out his diabetic supplies because at twenty, he had been already insulin dependent for nine years.
We shook hands upon introduction, as awkward, young Christian people do. That was it.
A year later, I met him again when he was on campus a week early to help with freshman orientation. I remember how my heart sank when we shook hands a second time and he remembered my friend’s name but not mine.
Over the next couple of years, I didn’t think about him much. He graduated, but I had three more years of college. We had lots of mutual friends, though, and met up occasionally in groups. He was single throughout his post-college years, but everyone knew he wouldn’t date someone unless he thought there was a future there. Passionate, he was. Single-minded. Incredibly devoted to Christ, tracking through seminary, serving on staff at a church. His friends knew he longed for marriage, but his wife would have to be something special to be his match. I told a friend once, “Whoever he marries, she will know without a doubt she is loved. Is anyone as loyal as he is?”
I couldn’t imagine she would be me.
But she was.
I’m her.
Or rather, I’m his.
The early bloom of our love was beautiful, exciting, and strong in its newness.
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The other night he slept on the couch. Apparently, after sixteen years of marriage, I have picked up the attractive habit of snoring when I’m especially tired. When the clock sounded at 5:30 a.m., I shuffled through the living room on the way to the kitchen for coffee and realized he’d slept on the couch all night. I wore slippers, ankle-length joggers, an oversized t-shirt, and a top-knot that barely survived the night. I touched his shoulder, then his cheek. Whispered, “you can have the bed now.” Without complaint, he headed toward our room to sleep another hour.
We’re in the middle years now. Sixteen anniversaries have come and gone, and for some of you that will be but a fraction of what you know in marriage. For others, sixteen is a distant spot on a horizon you can’t quite see.
He’s forty-one, I’m thirty-eight, and sometimes we’re just ships passing in the night (or early in the morning) with two boys who take up a lot of our time and hijack most of our conversations. Middle love isn’t that first bright bloom anymore. It’s older, a little tired. A little wilted around the edges for lack of attention. Less exciting than the early years. Yet strong. So much stronger. But probably not as strong as it will be when it’s old.
Middle love is sandwiched between the beginning and the end, a swath of years that sometimes contains so much neglect there’s nothing left, so the end comes a lot sooner. It’s easy to coast through middle love and hope for more time later. But you can wear out these years with fatigue and busyness if you’re not careful. Disuse can wear a hole in middle love.
Disuse can wear a hole in middle love. Share on XI’ve watched marriages shrivel up during the middle years. More roommates than spouses, couples divide up the chores, the bills, the chauffeuring of children to soccer practice or violin lessons, and the sides of the bed. The middle years don’t hold the bloom of early love or the longevity of old love just yet, so we just try to survive them. But like anything that needs to grow, middle love needs nourishment so it doesn’t die on the vine.
I watch my husband sometimes on the rare Saturday morning we get to sleep past seven. “Who are you, again?” I think, though I know every curve of his face, every green-gold glint of his irises. I think really hard about his otherness, his distinct self apart from me. All these years and kids and schedules and work and tears and laughter–sometimes I can’t remember who either of us were before it started. But we aren’t who we were at the altar sixteen years ago. And thank the Lord for that. There’s less of me and you and more of us and we. Still separate and distinct, but so tangled up it’s hard to say whose idea any of this was.
Who are you, again? I think when he’s lying asleep next to me. You’re the you from sixteen years ago with layers of love and pain and arguments and joy and growth and perseverance. Middle love can wither up and die in forgetfulness, or it can lengthen its roots in the soil of an intentional marriage.
Sometimes it looks like hiring a babysitter to keep the kids so he and I can sit across from one another at a restaurant and look one another in the eye until we remember what this marriage is about.
Sometimes it’s tabling an argument until the kids are in bed so we can say everything we must to keep our middle love from burning down in unspoken grudges.
Sometimes it’s curling up in bed and saying in the dark what we’re afraid to say in the light.
Sometimes it’s taking a walk just so we can hold hands.
Sometimes it’s praying for each other aloud when it feels unbearable awkward to do so.
It’s remembering our goal in marriage isn’t just a survival where we don’t really like each other anymore.
Paul tells us in Ephesians 5 that marriage is meant to display the gospel to the world. “Wives, submit to your own husbands as to the Lord” and “Husbands, love your wives as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her…This mystery is profound, and I am saying that it refers to Christ and the church” (Ephesians. 5:22,25,32).
My husband and I said those words on our wedding day—we do. If we’d known what the future held when we stood on the stage before the pastor and the wedding party, would we still say we do with such gusto and determination?
Sometimes tragedies, disagreements, and sharp words drive a wedge between the ones who love each other best. The six inches between us on the mattress might as well be six miles for all the distance sorrow can bring with her.
Or, our sin, our sorrows, our selfishness can lose the battle because “we do” means “He is,” and our promises to display the gospel in our marriage matter more than the way we feel when our desires go unanswered and the everydayness of marriage presses in hard.
Middle love in marriage isn’t just about how we feel about our spouse. We married because of the gospel, and the gospel is the reason we hold fast on those worse, poorer days. The gospel holds more power than earthly, romantic love. And praise God for that. We say those wedding words now with years of work and love and arguments and everyday life behind them—we do because He is.
Middle love matters as much as early love, and it’s the path we travel to get to old love. It’s a long opportunity to say to the world that Jesus loves His church, and our marriage can proclaim that truth even—and especially —in the mundane middle years. The middle years of marriage matter. Don’t just survive them. Feed them. Nourish them. Enjoy them. Fight for your middle love.
Photo by Joe Yates on Unsplash
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence (P&R) and Everyday Faithfulness (Crossway), and Memorizing Scripture (Moody). Connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.
Amy says
Glenna, these words are gold…perfectly written.
Eva Patterson says
Very precious!! Thank you for sharing!