There’s an old joke about how things change “after the honeymoon’s over” (in both marriage and work). It’s funny because it’s true. Every couple eventually comes down from the cake, the photos, and the glow. Some land gently. Others crash.

But the principle holds: The real work begins when the music fades.

Newlyweds may still bask in the warmth of vows they barely felt. But life has a way of testing those words sooner than expected.

Are we preparing couples for that moment — especially men — in a culture that rewards detachment more than devotion? In a nation filled with boys, are we raising men? In a society where even those at the highest levels of authority will not clearly define what a woman is, are we preparing men to sacrificially love one? In a world obsessed with sex and gratification, are we preparing men to lay down their lives rather than taking up their desires?

Treasure forged in marriage

I recently interviewed Jay Leno, who’s been caring for his wife of 45 years, Mavis, through serious health challenges. He told me, “This is where you earn your mettle. This is where you find out — do I really love her, or was it just easy when life was easy?”

Jay’s words reminded me that the cost of marriage isn’t just a burden — it’s a path to treasures only commitment reveals.

What makes marriage better isn’t avoiding the cost; it’s discovering the treasures it brings. You get to see grace do its quiet work over many years. You see joy flourish in places that should be barren. You see how scars — both physical and unseen — can frame a beauty more profound than youth. And you see God’s faithfulness in the unglamorous valleys where most resign.

Marriage is rewarding, and even one with caregiving is not a burden if you understand the calling. It’s not unhappy, but it does mean choosing one person above all others and guarding that choice. Chronic impairments just cause the guardrails to get a bit higher.

Newlyweds may still bask in the warmth of vows they barely felt. But life has a way of testing those words sooner than expected.

Love in suffering

A caller to my radio show once shared what happened when his wife came down with the flu.

“It was chaos,” he said. “Laundry stacked up. We lived on takeout. I missed work. No sleep. No sex.”

“How long did it last?”

“Five days.”

He sounded like he’d survived a war, not a week of sneezes. If five days can do that, what happens when it’s 100 days? A thousand? Ten thousand?

I’ve logged more than 14,000 days as a caregiver for my wife.

Most couples ease into suffering. We started with it. By the time we married, Gracie had survived a car wreck and 21 surgeries. That number has since climbed to 98 — across 13 hospitals. I lost count of physicians after 100. Minor procedures that didn’t require anesthesia easily surpass 150. I’ve collected more hospital visitor badges than some people have church bulletins.

But in that weight, I’ve come to see something sacred.

Our Savior also took a wounded bride. And he offered his body to be broken for her.

To my knowledge, Scripture gives only one direct charge to husbands: “Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her” (Ephesians 5:25).

Not when she’s at her best. Not when it’s fair. Not when the load is balanced.

Just this: Love her. As Christ loved the church. At the cost of yourself.

Marriage is deployment

Failure lurks in every marriage, especially in those that include caregiving. My “sanctification opportunities” are like Costco — always in bulk — where my weakness crashes into God’s mercy, usually after frustration hits a wall.

Yet while my performance record is nothing to brag about, my attendance record remains flawless. I’ve discovered faith is often disguised as consistency.

Soldiers understand this better than most.

When you’re deployed, comfort isn’t expected. You have a mission. You stay focused.

Caregiving is deployment.

I didn’t sign up for applause. But I did sign up. And like many soldiers, I’ve learned to travel light, stay alert, and protect what matters: a woman whose scars still reflect the beauty of God’s sustaining grace.

Everything must serve the mission to “love your wife as Christ loved the church,” and that means saying no to jobs, travel, or even well‑meaning voices that pull you off course. Sin threatens the mission, but distraction does it quietly. Even good things, if misaligned, become the wrong things.

The cross Christ carried wasn’t shared evenly. Neither is caregiving. That’s why clarity matters.

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Photo by Andre Taissin/Getty Images

When poetry becomes a battlefield

Churches valiantly try to strengthen marriages, and for many couples, those efforts help. But most of what’s offered assumes shared capacity. Suffering doesn’t always allow for mutual effort. Sometimes it’s just one of you standing while the other fades.

Standing alone doesn’t mean failing. It means standing.

That’s when the vows stop sounding like romantic poetry and become a daily battlefield, often marked by crushing silence.

In caregiving, strength is budgeted. Waste it, and there’s nothing left for what matters most.

Christ’s mission for his wounded bride didn’t trap him. It revealed his glory.

He walks with us

This mission we choose won’t make headlines. It’s not meant to. But God sees. He hasn’t asked us to understand everything. He’s asked us to trust Him. And maybe that’s the point, whether you’re facing five days of sickness — or a lifetime.

Show up. Filter the noise. Decline the distractions. Love the one entrusted to you — you won’t do it perfectly, but you can do it persistently and consistently.

Scripture doesn’t offer husbands “10 steps to a successful marriage.” It offers a cross. Just a path: the Via Dolorosa. And the one who walked it before us and walks it with us.