Marriage is hard, but it can be very good
This essay was first published on The Daily BS on August 1, 2025.
It was 40 years ago that we first met. We were both eighteen, fresh graduates with the ink barely dry on our respective high-school diplomas. That golden summer, I traveled to a distant state, using vacation time to visit friends. Together, we attended old-fashioned camp meetings at an old-fashioned campground. And there, several rows in front of me was a black-haired, blue-eyed young man.
Two years later, nearly to the day, we said our vows on a searing day in August. Prairie winds blew hot and relentless, but we scarcely noticed at all. Two weeks past my 20th birthday, I became a bride. So, the journey began.
The ensuing 38 years evaporated. Often, I thought to myself, “How did I get lucky enough to blunder around and marry the right person?” Recalling my youth and naivete, I was chronically surprised and grateful that it was so. And often over those 38 years, my husband and I would say to each other, “Almost nothing has turned out the way we thought it would.”
The fairy tales I read as a girl always featured a prince, a princess, and a white horse. After the nuptials, they would ride away together into a magical sunset to “live happily ever after” in a castle that never got dirty and was surely inherited with no mortgage, no insurance payments, and no utility bills. Clearly, such a blissful union was bound to produce little princes and princesses, Mensa candidates who never fought, were self-cleaning, and never smeared peanut butter and jelly into the carpets.
Well. In real life, this “prince” and “princess” had no white horse. They had an Oldsmobile, diesel, the size of a German tank and just as efficient. There was no castle. There was a mortgage, and the full weight of insurance and utilities fell unto them.
The children that their union produced did fight, they were not self-cleaning, and they happily spread peanut butter and mud in equal measure about the house. They chewed through the family stores like termites, leaving crumbs and shavings in their wake. The days crawled, but the years flew, and at last those children were grown.
In light of the upcoming anniversary, I reached out to those grown men to see what, if anything, they learned about marriage from the pr—I mean, from their father and me. Here are some of their observations.
The oldest one said, “You purposely spent a lot of time together and went to counseling and stuff. (You) eventually started doing your walks, date nights, etc.”
It was true. We did spend a lot of time together, their father and I, and when we needed help, we sought counseling. For years, we went out in the evening after dinner and walked three miles together on the country roads, talking about the day, the office, and what was going on with the guys.
For years, money was tight. Once the older boys could look after the younger ones, we went grocery shopping on Saturday night. That was our date night, and it didn’t matter that it wasn’t an extravagant event at a five-star restaurant. We were happy, stopping at Taco Bell before running our errands because we were alone, and we were together.
From the second one came this. “I would say how openly you support each other and how you so rarely let us see you guys fight as kids. Life was life, which wasn’t always romantic, but I never once questioned whether you and Dad would stay together or whether you loved each other. Also, how you made it a point to let us know that, aka kissing in front of us.” This was accompanied by two vomiting emojis.
I laughed. We certainly had learned how to clear the room. All we had to say was, “If you guys would leave, we could make out.” To a man, they’d turn pale and flee, buying us a few minutes of peace. It worked every time.
But he was right. We were openly affectionate with each other in front of them. We fielded questions on sensitive matters that could make us both turn pale, wanting to flee, but we were determined that no topic would be off limits. And it wasn’t.
He found security in the strength of our relationship. Not being subjected to marital conflict was helpful to him and, I am sure, to his brothers.
The third one commented that, “Marriage is a long process of getting to know one another.” That was also true, and because we had vowed to stick together, he and his siblings had a ringside seat to the whole thing.
The last one, though never the least, had two golden nuggets. “If both people are willing to work on themselves and grow, their relationship will reach uncommon levels of trust and intimacy.” This was the first one that came.
He followed it up with a second one. “A strong marital connection will bestow security and peace throughout the rest of the family.” It was a powerful insight from the freshly minted graduate, and I was grateful.
“So helpful, dude!” I texted him back.
From the HIC (Heckler in Chief), this reply. “That’ll be $5.99 for each. Use them wisely.”
Here’s the truth. A marriage that goes the distance isn’t easy. It doesn’t fall in your lap. You don’t stumble your way into a strong and happy union. It requires commitment and intention.
For us, it has also required a strong faith. He prays for me. I pray for him, and we both pray for our children.
Humor, the natural anesthetic, has been a mainstay. We have so much fun together. The ability to laugh at ourselves and with each other has saved us from many collisions. Laughter is a great connector, and the bonds we have are the proof.
Life can never be perfect here, but it can be so very good with love, laughter, and a family that stays and grows together. After thirty-eight years and counting, I know this to be true.
Every Saturday morning, America’s small, caffeinated mom appears on the nationally-syndicated James Golden Radio Show. Together, they discuss the topic of the week. You can find much more of Rhonda’s work on her website at www.rhondaschrock.com.