This Isn’t A Romance Novel Life

Today is our wedding anniversary.   (I wrote this May 15th)

Not exactly the storybook kind. No candlelit dinner, no romantic getaway. One of us is in the hospital, lying still as a surgeon works on his heart. The other—me—is wide awake in the middle of the night, painting a bathroom because I can’t sleep and I refuse to wallow in self-pity.

We are not living the romance novel life.

But this is the kind of love that vows were meant for—in sickness and in health, for better or worse. And tonight, I find myself just hoping for one more year. One more chance to walk hand-in-hand, even if the steps are slow. One more conversation, one more shared sunset, one more ordinary day that we used to take for granted.

Life has a way of pulling back the curtain, reminding us how fragile we truly are. A diagnosis, a procedure, a single moment—and everything shifts. We realize how quickly the balance can tip and how little control we actually have.

And it brings the question to the surface: What is all this really about?

The more I sit with the Word of God, the more I see that the Bible isn’t just a book to help us live well—it’s God’s preparation for the one appointment every single one of us will keep: the day we stand face to face with Him. On that day, no romantic ending, no perfectly healed body, no earthly achievement will matter. Only one thing will: Did we trust Him?

I’ll be honest—I wrestle with disappointment. Our marriage hasn’t always looked the way I thought it would. Our life hasn’t followed the script of happiness that culture writes. And the healing we’ve hoped for hasn’t come tied up in a bow. But then I remember: God never promised us a fairytale.

Paul writes from prison in Philippians 1:21, “For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.” That’s not a romantic ideal. That’s gritty, raw faith. That’s a man who’s seen pain and still declares Christ as the only goal worth chasing.

We who follow Jesus aren’t promised a comfortable life. We are promised His presence, His power, and His peace that passes understanding. The world may cling desperately to youth, ease, and control—but we live differently. We hold this life loosely. We look toward eternity.

And on days like this—anniversary or not—I have to choose that mindset all over again.

So here I am, not crying into a pillow, but painting a bathroom at 2 a.m. with worship music playing in the background. It’s not glamorous. But it’s sacred. It’s a quiet rebellion against despair. It’s faith in action.

It’s choosing not to mourn what we lack, but to praise God for what we still have. For breath. For love that has weathered storms. For hope that isn’t based on outcomes, but anchored in eternity.

And even if this anniversary didn’t come with roses or laughter or plans made for two, I still celebrate. Because we are still here. Still loving. Still hoping. And no matter how many more anniversaries we’re given, we know the end of the story—Christ is faithful, and in Him, we are never without purpose, even in the pain.

“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith…” (2 Timothy 4:7, ESV). That’s the love story I want. One that finishes well.