When you think it’s all lost
Diablo never liked his name. He joked that he was born with a PR problem. Christina used to answer that God knew exactly who he was, but lately their laughter had gone quiet. Bills gathered on the fridge, the car made a strange sound, the phone buzzed at unreasonable hours. Most nights they met in the kitchen, each on a different side of the table, with that thick kind of silence that turns the room cold.
On the Thursday everything cracked, Christina spilled coffee on the tiles. It was nothing, but she cried as if the mug held the whole week. Diablo’s reflex was to put the scene in his “no big deal” box. He grabbed a sponge, wiped the floor, said “It’s fine,” and that’s when he saw Christina’s eyes dim a little more. He set the sponge down and sat. She finally said, “I feel like we don’t live in the same place anymore.” He answered too quickly, “We’re just tired.” Deep down, he knew fatigue was the coat you throw over things you don’t want to see.
The first step
On Sunday they sat in the back row of church. Not to hide—just to breathe near each other without too many greetings. The message was about hope when the road looks blocked. Diablo watched his shoes; Christina counted breaths to stay present. In the car afterward, they didn’t have answers, but they promised each other one hour that evening, no screens, no logistics—just space to lay things down.
They started with a simple rule: two minutes each without interruption. Christina first. She named the exhaustion, the vertigo of carrying too much, the fear of disappointing, the weariness of walking on eggshells. Diablo listened, then he spoke about shame and how he shuts down when he feels small. “When you say ‘you never listen,’ I hear ‘you’re not a man.’ Then I go quiet.” Christina had a tear in her eye—not a giving-up tear, a recognition tear. At last, a clear word for the wound.
They ended the hour with an agreement: ten minutes of “real” talk every evening and one short prayer. No heroics; just faithfulness to a small step. They remembered a simple sentence they had heard a thousand times but had seldom tried: “A gentle answer turns away wrath” (Proverbs 15:1). They promised to look for that kind of gentleness.
Ordinary days where you find each other again
On Monday they set two chairs face to face, lit a candle, poured water. Christina told a work incident; Diablo asked two questions instead of offering three solutions. His voice slowed. He dared to say, “I’m worried about the car and I feel stupid for thinking about it at night.” Christina didn’t minimize. She took his hand, and the problem felt shared, not piled on his chest.
On Tuesday they slipped. A hard sentence, a half-slammed door. But last night’s promise caught them. Diablo said, “Let’s not wait until tomorrow. I want to mend this while we’re still within reach of each other.” He named his sentence, asked forgiveness with no defense, no “but.” Christina breathed and said, “Thank you. What I need to hear is that you’re with me, even when we don’t know how to fix things.” They talked for five minutes—just enough to keep the night from eating everything.
On Wednesday Christina proposed something slightly awkward but possible: a trade-places massage, ten minutes each, no ulterior goal—just giving their hands a language of kindness again. Diablo said yes, not to achieve anything, but to be available. In the warm light of the living room he thanked Christina for very concrete things: emails sent, a simple good meal, the morning smile despite the fatigue. Later she answered with a sentence that set a new stone: “You don’t have to be strong all the time for me to love you.”
Learning to name, count, bless
On Thursday they opened a notebook. Three columns: essential, negotiable, extra. They put numbers down, but mostly words. They wrote what they wanted to protect: Friday dinner, a Saturday walk, ten minutes of reading before sleep. They didn’t earn more money or fix the car, but they drew a home that felt more livable. Closing the notebook, Diablo said, “I was scared of doing this chart with you. Now I’m less scared.”
On Friday Christina wrote a tiny letter—three lines—and slid it into Diablo’s jacket: “I see your efforts. I believe God is still writing our story. I love you.” He found it as he left for work. It didn’t make him invincible, but it put a weight in his pocket, a weight that kept shame from rising too fast.
On Saturday they argued about dishes, like a thousand other couples. The echo of past weeks could have filled the apartment. This time Diablo put down the kettle and said, “Let’s not let this grow. I’m sorry for my raised voice. I don’t want to win; I want to understand you.” Christina laughed a little—surprised—and they talked about dishes as a symbol, then cleaned up without any grand gesture.
What we call hope
The next Sunday they sat in the back again. Not to disappear—to say, “We’re here, still.” The final song was about peace. Diablo squeezed Christina’s hand. His name weighed less; it didn’t tell his whole story. His story was becoming present again. Hope didn’t look like fireworks; it looked like a small flame that held because they shielded it every evening.
They went home and made pasta. Before eating, Christina asked, “Do we keep going?” Diablo struck a match to the same candle. “We keep going. If we trip, we’ll get up. We’re not alone.” And in the kitchen, with basil in the air and water boiling, they returned to that simple, deep work: speaking truth with gentleness, naming fears, blessing with small words, and letting tenderness build its nest again.