“I promise to choose you. I’ve chosen so many other things over the past ten years, yet you kept giving me chances to choose you. I won’t make the wrong choice again,” I said, my voice trembling as I held the microphone, standing before our friends and family. Tears streamed down my face as I faced him—this man who had stayed by my side until he couldn’t, only to choose me again when logic said he shouldn’t. That night, celebrating our ten-year anniversary with a vow renewal, there wasn’t a dry eye in the room.
Our marriage has never been easy. It hasn’t even been just hard—it was, at times, impossible. Out of those ten years, I lost myself between years two and eight, swallowed by prescription drugs, lies, manipulation, and selfishness. I broke the law, endangered my children physically, mentally, and emotionally, and stole money from our church, business, and personal accounts to feed my addiction. Eventually, I left him with no choice but to take our three children and walk away, prioritizing their safety over the guilt and shame of our failed marriage. He, the man who grew up believing marriage was a sacred covenant before God, had to break his vows to protect the ones he loved most.
There’s another story to tell about how I became addicted, how I got clean, and how I stayed that way—but this story is about redemption. It’s about trudging through life’s trenches with your spouse while the enemy fires from all sides, and still moving forward together. It’s about being pioneers in a world that can be terrifying, knowing that if you walk genuinely side by side, you can face anything. Our journey back to each other took immense personal work from both of us, but every second has been worth it. The challenges we’ve faced since then required a steadfast rock beside me, and Craig has been that anchor in every storm.
“Babe, I don’t think Marni’s feeling well,” I said that night during our anniversary party, noticing our three-year-old looking pale and irritable. “She’ll be fine. She’s just tired,” he replied. “We’ll put her to bed, and she’ll wake up right as rain.”
By 6 a.m., Marni was vomiting—every parent’s nightmare. I caught what I could in my hands, the rest in a bucket (gross, moms, you know the struggle). “Darn, I think she’s got a bug,” I muttered. “I’ll keep her home from church. Hopefully it’s just a 24-hour thing.” “No worries, I’ll take the others. You two stay home,” Craig said. “She’ll be okay.”
But she wasn’t okay. After eight hours of vomiting, the fevers came, followed by a relentless cough. “It’s been a week, and she’s only worse,” I told Craig, my worry mounting. We’d already seen the doctor twice and spent hours at the hospital. “Her chest hurts, and her cough is relentless. I’m taking her back to the emergency room.”
After tests, the diagnosis came: pneumonia. “She’ll need IV antibiotics and fluids. She’ll be fine in a couple of days,” the doctor assured me. But all I could hear was pneumonia. My heart froze. Eight months prior, we nearly lost our eldest to a mystery pneumonia that left her intubated and in a medically-induced coma. I texted Craig, trembling. His immediate, firm response anchored me: “It’s NOT like last time. Marni will be okay.” Somehow, his confidence made me believe him.
Three days later, Marni was indeed fine. But only a week later, our eldest woke with a cough. I was two hours away on a work trip. “Bailee’s sick. I think I need to take her to the hospital,” Craig said, concern sharpening his usually calm voice. I canceled my meetings and drove straight home, praying the whole way. Halfway there, I read his text: “Pneumonia. Straight to a bed, oxygen saturation at 82%.” My heart sank. It was happening again.
When I arrived, Bailee was in the resus bay, barely clinging to stability. By 10:30 p.m., doctors were preparing a helicopter transfer to a larger hospital for intensive care. Three hours later, she was there, hooked to monitors and IVs. Once again, Craig held my hand, guided me through every terrifying moment, sat beside our daughter while I sobbed in the hallway. This is life in the trenches—the unknown, the fear, the enemy pressing in from all sides.
Bailee spent five days in the hospital on oxygen and IV antibiotics, endured countless tests and pokes, and came home stronger than ever. We still have tests ahead, still face uncertainty, but we fight together—and that togetherness makes it bearable.
Standing at our anniversary party, tears streaming, I held the microphone, facing the love of my life. “Two years ago, we were both staring at life as single parents, trying to start over,” I said shakily. “But amidst the pain, trauma, and heartbreak, I knew God wasn’t finished with us yet. And He wasn’t.”
We tried to sing a song called Pioneers at the party—a perfect metaphor for marriage: struggle, forgiveness, adventure, and courage into the unknown. We may have butchered the performance in emotion, but the message rang true. Love, resilience, and choosing each other again can turn the impossible into the possible.
