Our marriage seemed doomed one beautiful Sunday after lunch when my husband Steve put his fork down and listened to my complaint that he'd skipped church once again, and didn't he think it was important for our three-year-old daughter to have both parents in church, and that he'd know how wonderful it was if he'd only come once in awhile, and on and on, followed by my fist slamming the table. He just looked at me with those level green eyes and said in a soft voice, "You should feel guilty."
"Me, guilty? You are the one who should feel guilty! Why me?"
"Because you are a Christian, and you are not loving."
It was true, of course, but I protested with flair, stomping upstairs to our bedroom, where I locked the door and railed at God about Steve's horrible unfairness to me. When Heaven answered with silence, I realized God agreed with my husband.
In only two years as a believer in Christ, I'd failed God completely. I was cut to the core and became deeply repentant before God, owning up to my failures as a wife. This process of repentance birthed a lifetime commitment to learn to love my husband again.
Since I was flat broke in ideas, God would have to supply them. And he did, every time I asked. Not overnight, but throughout many months our marriage healed to a better one than we'd previously known. By inches, Steve came to trust my love again. He looked better to me, somehow, when I stopped criticizing him. Handsome and romantic. Without a word of goading from me, his once non-existent faith also grew in this safer environment. Day-by-day we relaxed into our love for one another again. We laughed again and reached for one another again. Our romance bloomed. Wildly.1