We had just gathered around the breakfast table and were about to begin our meal when our eldest daughter started rustling around under the table, drawing everyone’s attention. Suddenly she burst out, “Happy Wedding Anniversary!” and handed us a small gift with great excitement. The children’s sudden cheers, applause, and their impromptu anniversary song warmed the parsonage as if melting the frost on the windowpanes.

As soon as the children finished singing, my husband jumped up and said, “Well then! We must light the candles!” He struck a match and lit the crystal candlesticks. The winter morning sunlight streaming through the window bars and the bright pink flames dancing atop the candles made our table glow with beauty for a long moment.

Ah—how many years has it been now? Twenty‑three? Already? As I repeated the question to myself again and again, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for God’s abundant grace. Like many others, we entered marriage without truly understanding what marriage was. We were like a puppy that has wandered onto a busy highway, bewildered and terrified by the rush of cars. Yet God gently placed the treasure of Christ’s love into the small, limited love we had for each other—turning discord into harmony, incompleteness into wholeness, and lack into fullness. Without that forgiveness and love, could this day ever have become a day of celebration for us?

Suddenly, I remember our unforgettable battle with the coal briquettes twenty‑three years ago. At that time, all cooking and heating were done with coal. But in the bitter subzero winter, the briquette fire went out constantly. We often woke in the middle of the night because of the cold seeping up from the floor, and we made endless trips to buy fire‑starter briquettes to revive the fire.

Yet those briquettes—famous for their strong heat—broke so easily! As you know, when about one‑third of a briquette remains, you must remove the old one and place a new one on top, a task requiring real skill. But every time I tried to lift a briquette with the tongs, it would break apart with a “pop!” I would let out a cry of despair, and my husband would roll up his sleeves, lie down with his face nearly touching the blazing furnace, and scoop out the broken ashes—ending up covered head to toe in soot.

When he finished cleaning the furnace, he would stand in our tiny kitchen and give me yet another lesson on How to Lift a Briquette Without Breaking It. “Now, don’t grip too hard. Lower the tongs gently… slowly lift… gently…” His lessons were always earnest, patient, and accompanied by impressive theory.

Years passed, and I finally became skilled with the briquette tongs, no longer worried about the fire going out. But soon I found myself breathless again—this time because we had been given the privilege of bringing life into the world and raising it. That life came with a love so powerful that we could never leave it unattended, not even for a moment. Feeding, caring, bathing, changing, laughing and crying together—sometimes with pain rising from the depths of the heart—and experiencing the thrill of giving everything without regret.

And through it all, God allowed us to understand, even if only a millionth part, what it meant for Him to give His own Son—His very heart—for the sake of humanity.

How many more years will our children gather to celebrate our anniversary, and my husband light the candle of joy? I do not know. But a wedding anniversary is a day that cannot be taken lightly. Through the meeting of two imperfect people, marriage humbles us and matures us. And it reminds us of how deep the Father’s forgiveness, patience, and loving struggle must be as He prepares us to become the Bride of Christ.

But truly—how easy is it to “lift gently and slowly”?

Late last year, my husband’s clergy colleague lost his wife in a tragic car accident right in front of the church he had just begun serving. It happened barely ten minutes after they had stepped out from worship. She, a gifted and capable leader in the women’s ministry and a devoted pastor’s wife, was someone from whom we expected much for God’s work. Her death left all our hearts aching.

He sent his congregation a Christmas letter that year—written through deep sorrow. In it, he wrote:

“…Years ago, when my wife and I became engaged, my joy was beyond words. We promised to share everything—whatever God allowed—within the joy He gives: to love, to share pain, and to walk through suffering together. To be in God’s joy is like Mary’s joy—bearing Jesus Christ at the risk of her own life without the support of her family. It is like Joseph’s joy—accepting as his own a child he did not understand. It is like the Magi’s joy—setting out on a perilous journey across a dark, pathless desert, guided only by a single star. God’s joy sometimes comes to us with the face of sorrow, surprise, or pain, yet the covenant of joy never changes. No matter how deep today’s sorrow may be, I give thanks that it is held within God’s joy.”

— WanHee Yoon, Letter from the Parsonage, December 1998

Note: This year, 2025, marks our 50th wedding anniversary—our golden jubilee.