Mercy, Marriage, and the Gift of More Time

Two hands, one basket, and the quiet grace of carrying life together.

Getting older has its perks. Some of them good. Some of them not so good.

One of the not so good parts is that once you reach a certain age, you have to start having more things checked out. Well, this week, one of those checkups was scheduled for my wife. So that morning, my son and I sat in the waiting room while she was back for her procedure.

It was not supposed to be anything major. We knew it was routine enough that there was no reason to panic.

But a waiting room has a way of making your mind go places you do not want it to go.

I sat there trying to stay calm. My son sat next to me, playing a video game to keep his mind focused. I, on the other hand, was a little worried. I checked my phone. I looked around the room. I said a few quiet prayers.

Lord, be with her.

Lord, let everything be okay.

Lord, please.

That was the part I could not ignore. I knew it was a minor procedure, but I also knew procedures can find things. Doctors can see something they were not expecting to see. A normal day can suddenly become a before and after kind of day.

I did not want to think that way, but the thought was there in the back of my mind.

What would I do without her?

That question is the one I did not want to dwell on for very long.

My wife has been part of my life for so long now that it is hard to imagine my life without her beside me. This year marks twenty years since she came to the United States from the Philippines. That is a lot of life. A lot of change. A lot of grace.

But in that waiting room, twenty years did not feel like a number.

It felt like a story.

I thought back to when we first met. I thought about getting to know each other from different sides of the world. I thought about love growing across distance and uncertainty, before either one of us could have known everything that would come later.

I thought about my first trip to the Philippines. I thought about meeting her in person, seeing her world, seeing where she came from, and realizing that love was no longer just an idea or a hope. It had a face. It had a voice. It had a name.

Then I thought about her coming here. Leaving her country, her family, her language, her familiar places, and beginning a new life with me. I do not know if I fully understood then what that cost her. I probably did not. I was young in a lot of ways. I was grateful, yes, but I do not think I had the wisdom yet to understand how much courage it took for her to cross an ocean and build a life here.

She was here for a couple of years before our marriage was blessed in the Church. That sacramental moment matters deeply to me now. I knew it mattered back then, but I did not yet see marriage the way I see it now. I did not yet understand how God could take two imperfect people and keep forming them through love, mercy, forgiveness, patience, and daily life.

Marriage is not only the day you say yes.

It is the yes that keeps getting asked of you, when life is exciting, when money is tight, when you are tired, when one of you is afraid, and when you are sitting in a waiting room praying for good news.

That is when something from Tobit came to mind.

Tobit is not a book I hear people talk about very often, but there is a prayer in it that has become beautiful to me. Tobiah prays over his marriage to Sarah and says, “Now, not with lust, but with fidelity I take this kinswoman as my wife. Send down your mercy on me and on her, and grant that we may grow old together.” (Tobit 8:7)

Grant that we may grow old together.

It is one thing to hear that as a wedding prayer. It sounds sweet there. Hopeful. Full of promise. The kind of line that belongs near the beginning of a marriage, when the road ahead feels long and open.

It is not less beautiful. It is more real.

Because now I know some of what those years can hold. I know there are hard seasons. I know love has to carry things romance alone cannot carry. I know there are days when you get it wrong. I know there are moments when forgiveness has to do what feelings cannot. I know there are times when marriage is less like a song and more like two people quietly choosing the same direction again.

And still, the prayer remains.

Lord, send down Your mercy on me and on her.

Lord, grant that we may grow old together.

As I sat there, I thought about how well my wife and I have learned to move together. Not perfectly. We are not perfect. But there is a rhythm there that God has built over time.

One of my charisms is Service. One of hers is Mercy.

I tend to see the task. The thing that needs done. The door that needs opened. The schedule that needs planned. The problem that needs solved. I see the moving pieces and start figuring out how to make them work.

She sees the person.

She sees the feeling in the room. The quiet hurt. The need that sits under the surface. The person who might not say they need help, but does. She brings warmth into places where I might only bring a plan.

I need that.

I need her.

There have been so many times when I wanted to charge ahead and get something done, and she helped me slow down enough to remember the person in front of me. There have been times when I saw the work, and she saw the heart. There have been times when I handled the details, and she brought the mercy.

Over the years, I have started to see that God did not only give me a wife to walk beside me. He gave me someone who helps me become more whole. Someone who helps me serve better. Someone who reminds me that love is never only about getting the work done. It is about seeing Christ in the person right in front of you.

That does not mean I am all service and she is all mercy, like we are stuck in separate boxes. God does not work that way. But those gifts are real. And in our marriage, I can see how they fit together.

It is like two hands carrying the same basket. One hand may grip differently than the other, but both are needed. If one lets go, the weight shifts fast.

That is what I felt in that waiting room. I felt the weight of how much she carries in our family, and how much I still want to carry with her.

I looked over at my son and thought about how our love has borne fruit. Not only in him, though he is the clearest gift we have been given, but in the life we have built. Our home. Our faith. The prayers we say. The hard conversations we have survived.

I thought about all of that while she was in the back, and I could not do anything but wait.

That may be one of the harder parts of love. Sometimes you cannot fix. You cannot serve in the way you are used to serving. You cannot open the door, make the plan, or solve the problem. Sometimes love just sits there, watches the clock, and prays.

And maybe that is service too.

Maybe sitting there was the work I was given in that moment. To stay. To pray. To trust. To hold the fear without letting it lead. To ask God for mercy on her and on me.

Then the doctor came out.

We looked up, and for a moment everything in me went still.

The doctor told us everything looked good. He did not see any issues.

I cannot explain how fast the weight lifted. It was like I had been holding my breath without realizing it, and suddenly I could breathe again. The fear that had been sitting quietly in the back of my mind loosened its grip.

Thank You, Lord.

That was the prayer then. Simple. Honest. Immediate.

Thank You.

I know not every waiting room ends that way. I know some people pray the same kind of prayer and receive much harder news. I do not want to pretend otherwise. There are husbands and wives who hear words that change everything. There are families who walk out carrying crosses they did not expect to carry.

So I do not take good news lightly.

That day, mercy came gently.

It came through words that lifted fear. It came through another chance to go home together. Another chance to sit beside her. Another chance to hear her voice. Another chance to keep becoming the husband I promised to be.

Another chance to grow old together.

And maybe that is what I am most grateful for right now. Not some grand sign from heaven. Not some dramatic revelation. Just the gift of more time.

More ordinary days.

More small yeses.

More chances to serve beside the woman whose mercy has softened my service.

More chances to love her better than I did yesterday.

More chances to keep asking God where He is leading us, and to trust that He has been forming us together all along.

Tobiah’s prayer is still my prayer.

“Send down your mercy on me and on her, and grant that we may grow old together.”

Lord, let me not waste the years You give us.

Let me notice her. Let me cherish her. Let me serve her with patience and receive her mercy with humility. Let our marriage keep becoming what You meant it to be. Let our home stay open to Your will, whatever You ask of us next.

And if You are willing, Lord, let us grow old together.