by Max Lucado
Here is a pastoral confession. Promise to tell no one. This will be our secret. It has to do with the thoughts of a pastor during a wedding.
I’ve officiated too many to count. Hands get held. Vows get made. Rings get swapped and…here is my confession.
I look at them- typically mid-twenties, jobless and kid-less. They know nothing about what awaits them. Utterly nothing.
She’ll get sick and puke. He’ll grow dense and forget. Bad breath. Bad breaks. Heartaches. Headaches. Bodies will sag and wrinkle. At this point in the ceremony, I come close, oh so very close to asking, “Do you really want to do this? Because, well, let me just say, apart from the grace of God you kids aren’t got a snowball’s chance.”
But I never say it. Want to know why? Because forty years ago today the same caution could have been spoken over Denalyn and me. Yes, forty years ago today!
It was a hot Miami afternoon in a Little Havana church. Kids, we were. She a 4th grade teacher, I a wanna-be preacher.
The pastor might have justifiably called a time-out and warned us about post-honeymoon hurts, wounds, stress and struggles. For, apart from the grace of God, we didn’t have a snowball’s chance.
But you know what? We had the grace of God. Heaven released a cloud of kindness upon us and, here we are, four decades later, still crazy in love. Great grace, downloaded upon us daily now for forty years. We are grateful.
As I write, I think of those whose marriages have not made it. Dear friends of ours, some of them. I have no easy answer to offer- just this. The grace that has strengthened us will heal us all.
And, regarding the secret. Mum’s the word. I’ll keep my mouth shut if you will. But if you ever attend a wedding I’m officiating, I’ll pause at the “I do” question just long enough for you and I to offer a prayer for the impossible…again.
