Our first vacation together outside of Missouri was a hot one.
The kind of hot that makes you question your life choices the moment you open the car door. Humidity clung to us like a second skin, and sweat seemed to form before our feet hit the gravel. It was the kind of weather that tests your patience, your packing skills, and occasionally, your marriage.
We were in Arkansas, chasing the beauty of Mirror Lake Falls.
The trail wasn’t especially long or steep, but in that heat, it felt heavier. He doesn’t love hiking—it’s not his thing. He’d rather be fishing, ideally from somewhere shady and still. But he came along. Because I wanted to see the falls. Because we wanted this trip to be about both of us.
And that’s the quiet lesson that started to emerge on that trip: love is shown in sacrifice, in small compromises, in the way we adjust for one another.
We parked in the dense shade and made our way toward the falls. I left my dog at home this time—a rarity—because I knew the extra heat and hiking wouldn’t be great for her. And he did more walking that day than he probably cared to. But in between the stops and the sweat and the snacks, something beautiful unfolded. We found a rhythm.
When we got to Mirror Lake Falls, we stood together below the cascade, and looked through the stone window of the old building that still stands there. It was like a perfectly framed photograph waiting to be taken. I got my shot, and he wandered off to see if there was a fish waiting for him downstream.
We stayed longer in that spot than we had planned. He cast his line, and I stood in the quiet, watching the water fall through sunlight and stone. There wasn’t music playing, but it felt like worship.
Ephesians 5:33 says: “However, let each one of you love his wife as himself, and let the wife see that she respects her husband.”
Marriage isn’t always mountaintop moments and Instagram-worthy snapshots. Sometimes it’s sweat and bug spray and rerouted expectations. Sometimes it’s about doing the thing that doesn’t come naturally—because you love the person it matters to.
1 Corinthians 13:5 reminds us that love “does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful.”
And let me tell you—there were moments on that trail when we both could have insisted. But we didn’t. He let me stay and frame the shot I had come for. I let him cast into waters that probably weren’t ideal. We found joy in those middle spaces.
That’s marriage, isn’t it? Not always agreeing, but learning to support. Not always understanding, but choosing to respect. Not always comfortable, but always committed.
As we headed back up the path, sticky and tired, I found myself smiling. It hadn’t been the easiest day, but it had been a good one. We had created space for each other. We had seen something beautiful—together.
And that’s a view worth remembering.
