The Vows We Are Living Now

“Battered” 11x14 oil 2026

Yesterday, we sat on the living room floor with our grandson James, laughing as he played, watching his little mind connect one discovery to the next.

For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed.

We were that younger couple again—full of energy, lighthearted, at ease in our bodies.

And then we had to get up.

What once was effortless now requires intention.

Stiffness had set in. Pain followed. And in that small, ordinary moment, I felt it—the reality that our bodies have aged.

I am learning something I had forgotten: love deepens not by escaping sorrow and grief, but by learning to hold them tenderly.

I can deeply love the man before me and still grieve what has been lost.

And he has lost so much.

In losing a part of himself—his leg—I have felt that loss too.

But alongside it, I see something else now.

A quiet refinement. Qualities that may always have been there, but have become more visible in the wake of what he has endured.

In those qualities, I see wisdom, a laying aside of judgment, a greater capacity to love, and a tender heart resolved to fall into the fierce yet loving hands of God.

I see his pain too—a sadness that lingers

too great to fix, too deep to fully comfort.

And as I see it, I ache for him.

We both long to be understood, and sometimes we miss each other in the process. We carry needs and expectations that occasionally collide.

He grows quiet to protect.

I speak too quickly and wish I hadn’t.

And still, beneath it all, remains the immeasurable longing to be known and to be loved.

I think of the song I sang at our wedding—my own composition, built around a single phrase:

“And wipe away each other’s tears.”

What does that look like fifty-two years later?

Tears need a gentle hand, the softest touch.

And an embrace strong enough to hold the sorrows yet to come.

Am I living those words I sang on my wedding day?

I believe I am.

I believe he is too.

But it is not effortless.

It requires intention—the patient work of helping aged love rise from the floor of misunderstanding.

I see it now in quieter ways.

In the listening.

The patience.

The shared sighs and laughter.

Even in the tension and fatigue.

Wiping away each other’s tears does not always mean fixing or solving.

It means being present.

Being steady.

Choosing each other still, above all else.

We said the words so easily once:

“To have and to hold from this day forward,

in sickness and in health,

for better or worse,

until death do us part.”

We could not have known then how those words would one day be asked of us.

And yet, here we are.

Not as we once were, but still together, holding each other—more carefully now—mindful not to tear or wear thin the exquisite fabric of our love.

Perhaps this is what I am learning after all these years:

The vows we spoke so confidently in our youth were never meant to be understood all at once.

They were meant to be lived.

Through joy and sorrow.

Strength and weakness.

Loss and laughter.

We have slowly discovered what those promises truly require.

Not perfection, but presence.

Not certainty, but faithfulness.

Not a love that escapes suffering, but a love that remains.

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.

It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered,

It keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.

It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails.”

1 Corinthians 13:4–7