How do you realise and appreciate the hard work your parents did to provide for you?

From a parenting and pastoral counseling perspective, I’ve learned that we don’t usually realize or appreciate our parents’ hard work all at once. My own children rarely appreciated what their mother and I accomplished for them until they were well into their late 20’s. For most of us, and I am speaking of myself here, that appreciation grows with time, maturity, and responsibility. Scripture frames this clearly: honoring our father and mother is not merely an emotional posture but an active, lifelong calling with real consequences and blessings attached (Exod 20:12; Eph 6:1–3; Deut 5:16). Honor, in the biblical sense, means recognizing the weight, value, and cost. It means acknowledging that who we are did not emerge in a vacuum but was shaped by years of unseen sacrifice. 

I’ve found that appreciation deepens when we begin to understand what our parents carried. As we step into adulthood and face bills, stress, exhaustion, and responsibility ourselves, we start to see the quiet decisions they made, working jobs they may not have loved, stretching limited resources, setting aside their own desires, and showing up day after day anyway. Scripture invites us not to discard their wisdom once we’re independent, but to bind their instruction to our hearts so that it continues to guide us, protect us, and speak to us throughout life (Prov 6:20–22). Their labor was not only about provision; it was about formation. 

The Bible repeatedly teaches that parental instruction is meant to shape character, not just behavior. A father’s instruction and a mother’s law are described as a graceful ornament and a protective chain, something that distinguishes us and guards us, not something that confines us (Prov 1:8–9). When we begin to live out those values, integrity, diligence, faithfulness, and perseverance, we are honoring the work they poured into us. In that sense, gratitude becomes embodied rather than merely spoken. 

Scripture also reminds us that appreciation does not expire when parents age or can no longer provide for their children. We are commanded not to despise our parents when they are old, but to listen, care, and show reverence even when the roles begin to reverse (Prov 23:22; Lev 19:3). Paul echoes this by teaching that caring for one’s parents is an act of godliness and something pleasing to God (1 Tim 5:4). Honoring them later in life is not repayment born of guilt; it is the natural continuation of a relationship built on love and sacrifice. 

Throughout Scripture, we see this lived out in real lives. Joseph honored his father by providing for him and his entire household during the famine, using the position God gave him to protect the one who once protected him (Gen 47:11–12). Ruth’s devotion to her mother-in-law was publicly recognized as costly, faithful love, and God honored that sacrifice (Ruth 2:11–12). These examples remind us that honoring parents often involves tangible action, not just internal appreciation. 

I’ve also learned that gratitude grows when we speak it. Saying out loud what we noticed, asking our parents about their struggles, listening to their stories, and acknowledging what they gave, even imperfectly, brings clarity and healing. Scripture warns strongly against contempt, mockery, or neglect toward parents (Prov 20:20; Prov 30:17), not because God is harsh, but because contempt corrodes the soul. By contrast, a wise son or daughter brings joy to their parents by living wisely and receiving instruction with humility (Prov 15:20; Prov 13:1). 

Ultimately, we realize and appreciate our parents’ hard work most deeply when we become the kind of people their sacrifice made possible, people who value wisdom, carry responsibility well, and pass on what we were given. Children’s children are called a crown to the aged, and a parent’s glory is seen in the lives their children go on to live (Prov 17:6). When we honor our parents in word, action, and character, we honor not only them, but the God who used their imperfect faithfulness to shape our lives. 

It’s also important for us to acknowledge, honestly and gently, that not all of us grew up under ideal or even safe circumstances. I include myself in that. Because of the abuse I experienced, my early perspective was shaped more by pain and survival than by gratitude. For a long time, I could not see my adoptive parents clearly, let alone appreciate what they had done for me. It wasn’t until I was in my mid-thirties, after significant healing and reflection, that my perspective began to change. With that change came the ability to separate sin from struggle, brokenness from intent, and failure from effort. 

As my understanding deepened, I was finally able to see my parents as whole people, imperfect, wounded, limited, yet still used by God in real and meaningful ways. I began to recognize the challenges they faced, the resources they lacked, and the burdens they carried, often without support. Even in the midst of those challenges, God was at work. In ways I could not see at the time, He was using their provision, discipline, and presence, however flawed, to shape my life toward what would ultimately be pleasing to Him. That realization did not excuse the harm that was done, but it did redeem the story. 

Because of that shift, gratitude became possible, not rooted in denial, but in truth. I can now say with sincerity that God used my parents, even through their brokenness, as His hands in forming me. For that redemptive work, I am eternally grateful. 

How can a person who loves God fall into sin?

When I am asked how a person who loves God can still fall into sin, I do not have to look far. I look inward. I see the same struggle the apostle Paul described when he said, “For what I am doing, I do not understand… For the good that I will to do, I do not do; but the evil I will not to do, that I practice… O wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?” (Romans 7:15–25, NKJV) That passage is not abstract theology to me. It is an autobiography. I love God. I desire to obey Him. Yet I still feel the pull of my flesh. I still see pride rise in me. I still see selfishness, fear, and old patterns trying to reclaim ground. The tension is real. Loving God does not remove my capacity to sin; it exposes the war that is already inside me. 

Scripture is painfully honest: “If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us” (1 John 1:8–10, NKJV). My greatest danger is not weakness — it is pretending I am strong. “Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed lest he fall” (1 Corinthians 10:12, NKJV). The moment I trust my own heart, I step onto unstable ground, because “the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked” (Jeremiah 17:9, NKJV). Sin rarely crashes into my life all at once. It grows quietly. James explains the progression: “Each one is tempted when he is drawn away by his own desires and enticed. Then, when desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, brings forth death.” (James 1:13–15, NKJV) 

I see that process in myself. It begins with a thought I entertain too long. A resentment I rehearse. A compromise I excuse. Scripture warns me to guard my interior life because “out of it spring the issues of life” (Proverbs 4:23, NKJV). When I neglect that vigilance, I drift. And drift is dangerous. “We must give the more earnest heed… lest we drift away” (Hebrews 2:1, NKJV). Even the strongest men in Scripture were not immune. David loved God, yet he fell into adultery when he stopped watching his heart (2 Samuel 11:1–4). Solomon began with wisdom and ended with divided loyalty (1 Kings 11:1–4). Their stories are not there to shame me; they are there to warn me. Pride truly does go “before destruction” (Proverbs 16:18, NKJV). 

The flesh is not passive. Paul tells me plainly: “The flesh lusts against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh… so that you do not do the things that you wish” (Galatians 5:16–17, NKJV). That conflict does not mean I do not love God. It means I am still in the process of being transformed. But here is the mercy: the Christian life is not defined by falling — it is defined by returning. When I sin, I am not cast away. I am called back. “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9, NKJV). I come to Christ not as someone pretending strength, but as someone admitting need. Scripture invites me boldly: “Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need” (Hebrews 4:15–16, NKJV). 

Even Peter — who loved Jesus deeply — denied Him. Yet Christ prayed for him: “I have prayed for you, that your faith should not fail; and when you have returned to Me, strengthen your brethren” (Luke 22:31–32, NKJV). After Peter failed, Jesus restored him (John 21:15–17). That restoration is my hope. Failure is not the end of the story when repentance follows. So my task is not pretending to be sinless. My task is vigilance and dependence. I must watch and pray (Matthew 26:41, NKJV). I must submit to God and resist the devil (James 4:7, NKJV). I must discipline my body (1 Corinthians 9:27), hide God’s Word in my heart (Psalm 119:11), flee temptation (2 Timothy 2:22), and put on the whole armor of God (Ephesians 6:10–18). And yet even with all of that effort, my ultimate confidence is not in my discipline. It is in grace. “Sin shall not have dominion over you, for you are not under law but under grace” (Romans 6:12–14, NKJV). 

I fall because I am human. I rise because Christ is faithful. A person who loves God can fall into sin because love does not erase the battle with the flesh. But love does change what happens after the fall. I grieve my sin. I confess it. I return. I run again with endurance, “looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith” (Hebrews 12:1–2, NKJV). That cycle — fall, confession, restoration, growth — is not proof that I do not love God. It is evidence that His Spirit is still working in me. And I thank God — through Jesus Christ our Lord — that the story does not end with my weakness. It ends with His mercy. 

What’s One Thing Out Of Life That You Want More Than Anything?

What’s One Thing Out Of Life That You Want More Than Anything?

How Can Know That I Can Be Known By God, 

And Accepted As I Am, And Live In His Presence?

 

The one thing I want out of life more than anything is simple to say, but it took me years to understand: I want God Himself. Not what He gives me. Not the life He can build for me. I want Him. The psalmist said, “One thing I have desired of the Lord… that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life” (Psalm 27:4, NKJV). That verse stopped being poetry to me at some point and became a hunger. 

We can spend our entire lives chasing security, approval, comfort, or success, and still feel empty. Scripture is honest about that. “Whom have I in heaven but You? And there is none upon earth that I desire besides You” (Psalm 73:25–26, NKJV). Paul reached the same conclusion when he said everything else was loss compared to knowing Christ (Philippians 3:8–10, NKJV). When we put God first, Jesus promises that the rest of life finds its proper place: “Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you” (Matthew 6:33, NKJV). 

But the deeper question isn’t just about desire. It’s about acceptance. Can I actually be known by God and still be welcomed? The answer is yes, and not because I cleaned myself up enough. I am accepted because God moved toward me first. “By grace you have been saved through faith… not of works” (Ephesians 2:8–9, NKJV). Our belonging does not rest on performance. It rests on God’s decision to love us. 

The Bible explains this with the language of adoption, and that is not abstract to me. I am an adopted child. I remember what it felt like to live out of uncertainty, never knowing if the place I was in would last. When I was adopted, I stopped being temporary. I had a home. I had a name. I belonged. That is exactly the picture Scripture gives us. “You received the Spirit of adoption by whom we cry out, ‘Abba, Father’” (Romans 8:15–17, NKJV). We are not spiritual outsiders trying to earn a seat at God’s table. We are brought into His family. The Spirit Himself bears witness that we are His children. That means we do not approach God as strangers. We approach Him as sons and daughters. 

Paul says God chose us intentionally: “Having predestined us to adoption as sons by Jesus Christ to Himself, according to the good pleasure of His will” (Ephesians 1:5, NKJV). Our acceptance is not reluctant. It is joyful on God’s side. And, as with earthly adoption, there is both a present reality and a future hope. We already belong, but we are still growing into the fullness of what that means. “We… eagerly wait for the adoption, the redemption of our body”(Romans 8:23, NKJV). We are secure now, and we are being completed over time. 

I think about inheritance sometimes in the same way. As the only surviving son in my family, I will one day inherit what my parents leave behind. Not because I earned it, but because I belong. Yet the greater inheritance I already received is not material. It is what they gave me in life: stability, guidance, protection, and the shaping of who I became. Spiritually, that mirrors what God has already given me: faith, identity, and the promise of a permanent home with Him. So when I ask how I can be known by God and accepted, the answer is not found in striving. It is found in receiving. We are already invited. We are already named. We are already loved. 

And the desire to live in His presence, that longing itself is evidence that He is drawing us. The life we want more than anything is not built by chasing experiences. It is built by walking daily with God, who has already made us His own. That is the life I want. That is the life we were made for. 

Why does God allow pain and suffering even when we pray?

When we ask why God allows pain and suffering even when we pray, we are not asking an abstract theological question—we are asking a deeply personal one. I know that question intimately, not only from Scripture, but from my own life. Just recently, in my home Bible study, I prayed that God would not merely walk with me through what I am facing, but that He would carry me through it. I prayed that way because I know my limits. I cannot endure the constant emotional strain of endless “what ifs” on my own. What I am facing is not theoretical. I have learned that I may be dealing with early-onset Alzheimer’s–type brain loss, traumatic brain damage, or one contributing to the other. MRIs show a loss of gray matter, and the migraines I have suffered with for years have now become unbearable, no longer responding to over-the-counter medication. 

Much of this traces back to my youth. Like many young men, I lived as though I were indestructible. I rode motorcycles recklessly, abused alcohol and drugs, and suffered multiple serious concussions and back injuries that should have put me in a hospital. Instead, I numbed the pain and kept going. What I thought was normal then has become costly now. I share this not for sympathy, but for honesty. Either way—whatever the final diagnosis—I know that one day I will leave this world and go home to be with the Lord. And that reality brings us directly back to Scripture. Throughout the Bible, God’s people prayed—and still suffered. Job was righteous, yet lost everything (Job 1–2, NKJV). Paul pleaded for relief from his thorn, and God answered not by removing it, but by saying, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9, NKJV). James reminds us that trials test our faith and produce endurance, shaping us into something complete (James 1:2–4, NKJV). Peter tells us not to think it strange when fiery trials come, but to commit our souls to God as to a faithful Creator (1 Peter 4:12–19, NKJV). 

What I am learning—and what Scripture has always taught us—is that God does not promise a pain-free life. He promises His presence. He promises purpose. He promises that suffering is not wasted. “And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God” (Romans 8:28, NKJV)—not that all things are good, but that God is at work in them. There is also deep comfort in knowing that God is not only with us, but He knows our end from our beginning. “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you… When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned” (Isaiah 43:2, NKJV). And even beyond our own lives, God remains faithful. He will be with those we love when we are no longer here—comforting them, sustaining them, and being to them what we can no longer be. 

This is why Jesus Himself prayed, “Nevertheless, not My will, but Yours, be done” (Luke 22:42, NKJV). Faith does not deny pain. Faith entrusts pain to a God whose wisdom exceeds ours and whose love never fails. So when we pray and suffering remains, it does not mean God has ignored us. Often, it means He is doing something deeper than relief—forming trust, refining faith, and teaching us to rest not in outcomes, but in Him. And one day, this story will end as Scripture promises: “And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying” (Revelation 21:4, NKJV). Until that day, we walk—and sometimes are carried—by a faithful God who never lets go. 

Another Closed Door: God’s Providence, Do We Need Another Picture of It?

 

I want to start by saying this plainly: we are not “too emotional.” We’re human. When we’ve watched door after door close—school, career opportunities, community, friendships, even the path we were convinced was finally the right one—it can leave us confused, lonely, and disappointed. And when it happens repeatedly, we know all too well that we begin to question our own thinking, and then we ask, “Lord, what are You doing in my life, and where are You leading me?”

A phrase people often repeat in moments like this is, “When God shuts a door, He opens a window.” That saying may not comfort us, but it’s important to be honest: it isn’t a Bible verse. Scripture doesn’t promise that every closed door will be immediately replaced by a new opportunity that makes sense to us. But Scripture does clearly teach that God is sovereign over access and direction. Jesus Himself is described as the One “who opens and no one shuts and shuts and no one opens” (Revelation 3:7–8). That means the doors we are grieving are not outside His authority, and the delays we cannot explain are not proof that He has forgotten us. 

Sometimes what hurts the most isn’t just the closed door—it’s the silence that seems to follow. We’re left in that uncomfortable “in-between” place, where we don’t know what to do next, and we feel like we’re waiting without a map. Yet this is exactly where God often does some of His deepest work in us. Scripture reminds us that we are not meant to lean on our own understanding, but to trust the Lord with all our heart and acknowledge Him in every step (Proverbs 3:5–6). When we do, He promises to direct our paths—not always according to our timeline, but always according to His wisdom. 

This is where I think we must hold two truths together. First, God really does care about our future. He is not careless with our lives. He tells us, “I know the thoughts that I think toward you… thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope” (Jeremiah 29:11). Second, God’s plans often unfold in ways that we would never choose for ourselves. The Lord says plainly, “My thoughts are not your thoughts… nor are your ways My ways” (Isaiah 55:8–9). In other words, what looks like a dead end to us may be protection, preparation, or redirection in God’s hands. 

If we need a picture of God’s providence, we don’t have to look far. We can look at Joseph. Joseph didn’t understand the closed doors in his life either. He was betrayed by his brothers, sold into slavery, falsely accused, and forgotten in prison—yet Scripture repeatedly shows that God was with him through every stage of that process. Joseph’s story reminds us that God is not only guiding outcomes; He is shaping hearts. God was preparing Joseph for the position he would one day carry, and Joseph could not have stewarded that calling without first being refined through suffering, injustice, waiting, and humility. What others meant for evil, God used for good—and in Joseph’s life, the “closed doors” were not abandonment; they were training. 

And that’s one of the hardest lessons for us to accept: sometimes the closed door isn’t God rejecting us—it’s God protecting us. Sometimes the door closes because the timing is wrong. Sometimes it closes because we’re not ready yet. Sometimes it closes because the opportunity would actually shrink our faith rather than strengthen it. And sometimes God closes a door simply because He is leading us somewhere we would never choose if we had the full control of the pen. 

We also need to remember that Scripture shows us people praying specifically for open doors—but always for God’s purposes, not just our comfort. Paul wrote about how “a door was opened to me by the Lord” for gospel work (2 Corinthians 2:12), and he urged believers to pray “that God would open to us a door for the word” (Colossians 4:3). In other words, open doors are real, but they are not random. God opens doors that align with His will, His timing, and His glory—even when we don’t yet see how. 

At the same time, we can’t ignore the emotional weight of disappointment. When we’ve hoped for something good, prayed over it, planned for it, and then watched it collapse, it can feel personal. It can feel like God is withholding something we needed. But Scripture says, “The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord… though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down; for the Lord upholds him with His hand” (Psalm 37:23–24). Even our stumbles and setbacks are not wasted when God is holding us steady.

 

So what do we do when we can’t see what God is doing?

 

First, we keep praying—not because prayer forces God’s hand, but because prayer anchors our hearts. God commands us, “Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God… will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:6–7). That peace doesn’t always come with answers, but it comes with God’s presence. 

Second, we stay faithful to what we can do today. Waiting seasons are still seasons of obedience. Ecclesiastes tells us, “To everything there is a season” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). And waiting is not inactivity—it is learning to trust God when we don’t get immediate clarity. “Wait on the Lord; be of good courage, and He shall strengthen your heart” (Psalm 27:14). 

Third, we remember that God often builds the road as we walk. He says, “Behold, I will do a new thing… I will even make a road in the wilderness and rivers in the desert” (Isaiah 43:19). Wilderness seasons feel barren, but God specializes in bringing provision where we thought nothing could grow. 

Finally, we surrender the need to control the outcome. James warns us not to live as if we own tomorrow: “You do not know what will happen tomorrow… Instead, you ought to say, ‘If the Lord wills, we shall live and do this or that’” (James 4:13–15). That isn’t fatalism. That’s freedom. It’s the peace of knowing our life is not held together by our ability to predict the future, but by God’s ability to guide it. 

So yes, doors close. And sometimes it hurts deeply. But God has not stopped leading us simply because we can’t see the next step. He is still the One who opens and shuts. He is still the One who goes before us (Deuteronomy 31:8). He is still the One who instructs us and teaches us in the way we should go (Psalm 32:8). And He is still working all things together for good for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose (Romans 8:28). 

 

Closing Prayer

Lord, when we cannot understand why doors keep closing, help us trust Your heart. Teach us not to lean on our own understanding, but to acknowledge You in all our ways. Strengthen us in seasons of waiting, guard our hearts from bitterness, and keep our faith steady when our plans fall apart. Just as You were with Joseph in the pit, in the prison, and in the palace, be with us in the unknown places too. Open the doors You desire for our lives, close the ones that would harm us, and make us willing to follow You—even when we don’t yet see the whole path. In Jesus’ name, amen.  

Question: How do people cope with the fear of marriage when they see relationships around them failing? What are the signs that it's time to work on my marriage rather than being distracted by feelings for someone else, which often leads to another failing marriage?

When I speak with people who fear marriage—especially after watching relationships around them fail—I begin by acknowledging that their fear is understandable. What we see modeled shapes what we expect. If brokenness, instability, or repeated divorce has been the dominant picture, it is natural to question whether marriage is worth the risk. I grew up watching my parents go through profound hardship, yet they stayed together. That example is foundational to why I believe in marriage as I do. Ruth Bell Graham once remarked, half in jest, “Divorce, never; murder, maybe,” underscoring her conviction that marriage, like faith, is a lifelong covenant. That same conviction marked my parents’ marriage, and it is the conviction that shapes my own—one that I fully expect will end only when one of us goes home to be with the Lord. 

Friends, no marriage is perfect. My parents’ marriage certainly was not. Yet they loved one another, and God was the center, core, and foundation of their life together. That is why their marriage endured until my father’s death. It is also important to remember that marriage is not always a fifty-fifty arrangement. There were many seasons when my mother gave far more than her share to sustain both the marriage and our family. That reality does not diminish the biblical mandate placed on husbands; rather, it highlights it. Scripture calls husbands to love their wives as Christ loved the Church and gave Himself for her—a sacrificial love that holds a marriage together when circumstances are anything but equal.

To put a finer point on this, Scripture calls us to view marriage not through the lens of cultural failure, but through God’s design. God intended marriage to be a partnership in which two people are stronger together, offering mutual support, protection, and encouragement through life’s trials. That is exactly what I witnessed in my parents’ marriage, and it is what I continue to pursue in my own. This year marks thirty-eight years of “dating” my wife, and I can say with conviction that Solomon was right: “Two are better than one… for if they fall, one will lift up his companion… and a threefold cord is not quickly broken” (Ecclesiastes 4:9–12). I watched my mother lift my father up more times than I can count, and as I grow older, I see that same steadfast love reflected in my wife today.

Friends, fear often grows when love is misunderstood. Biblically, love is not primarily a feeling but a choice and a practice. Paul tells us that love is patient and kind, not self-seeking or easily angered, and that love endures (1 Corinthians 13:4–8). When we anchor our understanding of marriage in fleeting emotions, fear will dominate. But when we learn to trust the Lord with our future—“Trust in the LORD with all your heart… and He will make your paths straight” (Proverbs 3:5–6)—our fear begins to give way to faith. Marriage was never meant to be sustained by romance alone, but by intentional love rooted in obedience to God. Solomon said, “Charm is deceitful, and beauty ispassing, but a woman who fears the Lord, she shall be praised” Proverbs 31:30, (NKJV). The same is true for men, and it is a lesson we will all learn as we age; thus, to love as a verb is intentional, meaningful, inviolable, and meant to last a lifetime. 

That leads directly to the second part of the question: how do we know when it’s time to work on our marriage rather than be distracted by feelings for someone else? One of the clearest signs is when emotional distance, resentment, or dissatisfaction begins to replace intentional care. Scripture calls husbands to love their wives sacrificially, as Christ loves the church—nurturing, cherishing, and protecting that relationship (Ephesians 5:25–33). Jesus also reminds us that marriage is a sacred union—“the two shall become one flesh… what God has joined together, let no one separate” (Matthew 19:4–6). When feelings for someone else arise, that is not a sign that the marriage has failed; it is often a signal that the marriage needs attention, healing, and renewed intentionality. 

From a pastoral standpoint, I often see that “lost feelings” are rarely the true problem. More often, they grow out of unspoken anxieties, unresolved conflict, resentment, or emotional withdrawal. Selfishness—putting our own desires ahead of the covenant we made—is one of the most common causes of marital breakdown. This is why turning to God’s wisdom, rather than the world’s narratives, matters so deeply. Marriage belongs to God. Seeking counsel rooted in Scripture honors the vows we made before Him, while chasing emotional distractions often leads only to repeating the same patterns in another relationship. 

One practical way we counter this drift is by intentionally “dating our spouse.” This is not accidental or reactive; it is planned and thoughtful. Just as we prepare ourselves each day to face the world with care and intention, we must also prepare our hearts and actions to pursue our spouse’s good. Dating one’s spouse means choosing to cherish them, to seek their joy, and to protect the bond you share. When this is done sincerely, with the goal of pleasing one another rather than ourselves, it aligns with God’s design for marriage. The Song of Solomon gives us a beautiful picture of this kind of intentional affection, desire, and delight—a love language husbands and wives are meant to cultivate throughout their lives together. 

Finally, healthy marriages are built on connection and spiritual alignment. Couples who endure learn how to stay connected even during seasons of disappointment. They worship together, pray together, practice forgiveness, and continually rebuild trust. In this way, they store up what some call a “love bank”—a reserve of shared memories, kindness, and goodwill that sustains them when emotions run low. Over time, as we allow God to reshape our thinking and expose false beliefs about love and marriage, we learn that commitment, not distraction, is what leads to lasting joy. 

In the end, fear does not have the final word—faith does. When we choose to work on our marriages rather than escape from them, we honor God, protect our hearts, and give love the time and space it needs to grow into something far deeper than feeling alone could ever produce. 

Why Is It Better to Repair Marriages Than End Them?

When I talk with couples about why it is better to repair marriages than to end them, I begin by grounding the conversation in God’s design for marriage and in the reality of our shared human brokenness. Scripture is clear that marriage is sacred, not casual or disposable. God says plainly that He hates divorce because it does violence to the covenant He established (Malachi 2:16). Jesus reminds us that from the beginning God made husband and wife to become “one flesh,” adding, “What God has joined together, let no one separate” (Matthew 19:4–6). From a biblical perspective, marriage is not merely a legal contract but a spiritual union, and ending it fractures something God intended to be whole. 

Because marriage is such a deep joining, Scripture consistently emphasizes reconciliation over separation. Paul instructs married believers not to divorce and, even when separation occurs, to pursue reconciliation rather than moving on as though the covenant no longer matters (1 Corinthians 7:10–11). Marriage is not simply two lives running side by side; it is a joining into one. I often explain it as two pieces of wood glued together. When they are properly bonded, they become one strong piece. But when they are forced apart, they do not separate cleanly—they splinter. Each piece is permanently changed. Even if someone later tries to attach themselves to another partner, the edges never fit the same way again. This is why divorce carries such deep and lasting pain. It is not merely the end of a relationship, but the tearing apart of something that was meant to be one. God’s call to reconciliation reflects His understanding of this reality and His desire to protect us from wounds that change us in ways we never expected. 

From a pastoral perspective, we also have to be honest about the culture we live in. We live in a world that prizes convenience, personal fulfillment, and escape from discomfort. Even when marriages do not legally end, many become emotionally divorced—cold, distant, and filled with resentment. Repairing a marriage rather than abandoning it calls us to maturity, patience, and sacrificial love. Christian marriages, in particular, carry a higher purpose. They are meant to reflect God’s ministry of reconciliation. When a couple chooses to work through conflict with humility and grace, their marriage becomes a visible testimony to God’s power to restore what is broken (2 Corinthians 5:18). 

I often think of marriage in terms of building a home. What determines whether a marriage stands is not whether storms come, but whether the foundation is solid. Jesus tells us that when the rains fall, the floods rise, and the winds beat against the house, only the one built on the rock will remain standing (Matthew 7:24–27). In marriage, those storms come in many forms—stress, disappointment, temptation, fatigue, and loss. One common temptation is believing the cultural lie that more is better: more work, more money, more possessions, more security. Yet that pursuit often costs us the very relationships we are trying to protect. In reality, less is usually better, because it forces us to focus on what truly sustains a marriage: time, presence, faithfulness, and shared life. When Christ is the foundation upon which we build, our marriage is not spared from trials, but it is strengthened to endure them. 

Marriages also do not thrive by accident. They are built slowly, intentionally, and relationally. In my own marriage, my wife and I spent seven years getting to know one another before we married. That time was not about perfection or certainty; it was about trust. We learned how to open our lives to one another, sharing our histories and the realities of the homes we came from. I came from an adoptive home, and my wife came from a home marked by two divorces. Those conversations were not easy, but they laid the foundation for what we have today—nearly thirty-eight years of marriage. Trust grows through vulnerability, honesty, and the willingness to be known. That is how two lives become united. To discard that bond lightly is a grave mistake, especially given the pressures and uncertainties life inevitably brings. 

A life partner is far more than someone to share a bed, a house, a bank account, or a collection of memories. A true partner is someone with whom we share life itself—someone who walks with us through joy and hardship, success and failure, health and weakness. Marriage is about mutual growth, forgiveness, and learning how to repair what is broken rather than abandoning it. Scripture calls us to forgive as we have been forgiven (Colossians 3:13) and to bear with one another in love. These acts of repair are not signs of weakness; they are signs of covenant faithfulness. 

Finally, repairing marriages matters not only for couples but also for families and communities. Easy divorce often leaves deep wounds, especially for children, who thrive best in environments marked by commitment and stability. While there are situations involving unrepentant abuse or danger where separation is necessary, God’s heart is always toward healing rather than abandonment. Scripture consistently shows us that God never intended marriage to be something we walk away from lightly. When we choose repair over retreat, we reflect God’s faithful love—a love that does not give up on us, even when we are at our worst.