When love and will learn to walk together
Luisa and Marc hadn’t lost love; they’d misplaced it behind schedules, commutes, screens, and those quick end-of-day jabs that sting more than they mean to. One evening at the sink, Luisa said, “We still love each other, but I don’t know how to reach you anymore.” Marc answered too fast, “I’m just wiped out.” He paused, lowered his eyes, and added, “I don’t want fatigue to tell our story.”
There are no finger-snap miracles, but there are beginnings. Love is the flame. Will is the wood you bring each night. And God’s power is the breath that fans embers back into fire.
“For it is God who works in you to will and to act in order to fulfill his good purpose.” (Philippians 2:13, NIV)
“Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us…” (Ephesians 3:20, NIV)
The breaking point (ordinary, not dramatic)
The week before, they’d argued about something absurd—who forgot to buy rice. They were hungry for something else: to be seen without being evaluated, heard without being corrected. Luisa felt alone at the controls of a runaway train. Marc felt reduced to a tired wallet. The home sounded hollow, even with music playing.
That night at the sink, they chose a small step over a grand speech. Two chairs, face to face. Ten minutes, no screens. One simple rule: two minutes each with no interruptions, then one reflection sentence from the listener. No courtroom. No expense report of the week.
— Luisa: “I need you with me, not perfect.”
— Marc: “I want to stay present even when I feel like a failure.”
The air in the room changed. Not the end of problems—just the return of hope.
Will as a gentle weapon
They wrote a line on paper and taped it to the fridge: “Today > someday. Small and steady > big and rare.” Will was not gritted teeth; it was humble strength—choosing love when the feeling wasn’t there.
They tried a simple sequence three nights in a row:
Look — sit, breathe, name one true thing (“I’m at 60% tonight”).
Words — one real thank-you, one fact, one need. No prosecution.
One-line prayer — “Lord, put Your gentleness on our words.”
Gesture — make tea, a two-minute shoulder rub, a ten-minute walk with no problem-solving.
Night one felt awkward. Night two, a laugh returned. Night three, they discovered that a home changes by millimeters, not slogans.
Plain truths that real life teaches
Fatigue is data, not a judge. When you name it, you adjust expectations, simplify, and keep one small promise you can repeat tomorrow.
Fast repair beats being right. “I’m sorry for my tone” saves an evening better than a brilliant argument.
Blessing creates reality. “Thank you for…” and “I bless you for…” rewrites the atmosphere.
The body has its theology. Cooking together, a hand on a shoulder, walking side by side—sermons without a microphone.
A scene that quietly changed everything
On Saturday they attempted a simple dinner. Marc chopped tomatoes; Luisa seasoned. Each offered one specific compliment. Before eating, Marc whispered, “Lord, work in us to will and to act again tonight.” (Phil. 2:13) After the meal, they cleaned up in silence—but it was inhabited silence. Later, Luisa smiled, “I’m finding you again.” Marc said, “I find me when I find you.”
When God’s power meets small steps
Power didn’t snap its fingers and pay the bills. It worked within them (Eph. 3:20) so they could do, steadily, what they kept postponing “for someday.” A verse on the fridge, a ten-minute ritual, a spoken blessing—small matches, yes. But the coal was there. God breathed.
The next week they kept the rhythm—three evenings, same time, same chairs, same steps. They didn’t aim for flawless; they chose faithful. And faithfulness did what feelings no longer could: it rebuilt.
Final prayer
“Lord, You work in us to will and to act. Give us a gentle, stubborn will to choose love today. Let Your power at work within us do more than we can ask or imagine—for our home. Amen.”