When my wife and I visit with other couples, we often ask how they met. Oftentimes, the couple will look at each other with a smile. It may be a story they’ve rehearsed many times, yet they still love to recount it for us because it reminds them of their relational beginning. Sometimes it may be a long and winding tale, and others, perhaps met on a dating app. Either way, we love to hear their stories because we love our own story.
People also often ask, “How did he propose?”
In this area, I failed. It isn’t a story full of rose petals, fireworks, and champagne. No. I had a ring burning a hole in my pocket, and I couldn’t wait another moment to ask her. Earlier that evening, I had driven to her parents’ farm to ask their blessing. (They didn’t give it, but that’s another story for another blog) Unbeknownst to my future fiancé, we went for a walk in the shadow of that denial of blessing. As we were getting closer to my parents’ house, I stopped my girlfriend, took her hand in mine, and looked deep into her eyes. (I did it in front of my friend Ingrid’s house so that I would always remember the exact spot I proposed) That was it. Not even on one knee, but heart racing, I asked Beckee to be my wife.
Her mind was overwhelmed with joy at the proposal, but also knowing that I would have already spoken with her parents, and that it wouldn’t have gone well. Eventually, she did accept my proposal.
I always wish I had made a bigger scene, something more romantic, something that would impress others when she told the story of her engagement. But here’s the real deal, here’s the truth of the matter: anyone who has been married for more than five minutes knows the proposal doesn’t determine the marriage. That grand moment may set the stage, but it’s the quiet consistency of the days that follow that really tells the story.
This pressure for the dramatic doesn’t just show up in youthful romance; it finds its way into our faith, too. In some circles, testimonies seem to need at least three addictions and one near-death experience to be considered truly inspiring. But the truth is, most of the Christian life isn’t lived on a stage or in front of an audience. It’s lived in kitchens, cubicles, classrooms, and coffee shops.
The danger of the grand gesture mentality is that it fools us into thinking faithfulness has to be flashy. That the biggest moments are the truest indicators of spiritual depth. But that’s not how the Bible describes maturity.
Paul wrote in Colossians 3:23-24: “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving.”
Whatever you do. That means washing dishes. Writing emails. Listening patiently. Forgiving quietly. Praying in secret. Whatever you do.
We don’t need to manufacture grand gestures to prove our love for Jesus. Sometimes the greatest act of faith is just showing up and choosing Him in the ordinary. He sees that. He honours that.
Romans 12 talks about offering our bodies as a living sacrifice. Not a once-and-done dramatic altar call moment. A living, breathing, daily rhythm of surrender. That means we offer not just our big decisions, but our tiny ones, too. Not just our call to missions, but our call to be kind when we’re tired. Not just our promises, but our patience.
The Christian life is a long obedience in the same direction. Not a highlight reel. Not a spiritual fireworks show. Just faithful steps.
So if your story doesn’t involve an Instagrammable testimony or a mountaintop moment this week, take heart. You’re not missing it. You might be exactly where God wants you.
There’s no illusion in a faithful life. Just a quiet kind of glory.
Keep going.
The Introverted Pastor 