The landscape of college ministry has shifted dramatically over the past 25 years. But here in 2025, I’m still consistently receiving the same question that I asked as a student: “Why am I not feeling it?”

Why am I not more excited about Jesus? Why doesn’t the gospel taste sweeter to me? Why are my emotions not responding to the best news in the world? I have a wealth of Christian resources, but I’m still desperately grasping for joy. Why does it stay tantalizingly out of reach?

Two Common Diagnoses

Before we go further, it must be said that the majority of those who experience this kind of unwelcome numbness are not fully numb. They are selectively excited. They still find themselves giddy about gaming, wild about the weekend, or captivated by a crush. It’s the spiritual pursuit, or perhaps the very nature of God, that douses the flame.

Years ago, I was leading a weekly Bible study of sophomore men. At the beginning of each meeting, one of these sophomores was playful, energetic, even squirrely. But almost without fail, his eyes would begin to droop when we would open the Bible — as if some form of yet-undiagnosed, Scripture-induced narcolepsy had seized him. (My children are often afflicted with the same strange condition.)

While this was an embarrassingly overt case, parallel stories of selective excitement remain common, and there are generally only two diagnoses.

Spiritually Dead

On the one hand, the person has yet to develop a taste for God at all. Scripture clearly states that God turns on the lights of Christward affection in our hearts (2 Corinthians 4:6), but before that wonderful awakening, we are prone to be bored by anything that doesn’t directly or indirectly exalt ourselves. So the Bible, which humbles us on every page, is somewhere between repulsive and boring, and talk of God evokes a response akin to Edmund’s at the first mention of Aslan’s name.

If you are reading this and deeply concerned that you are of that number, I am less concerned than you are — precisely because you’re unsettled. It is far more likely that you fall into a second category.

Spiritually Distracted

In this case, the person isn’t “feeling it” because he has been nibbling on lesser joys, like a child who has no appetite for a steak dinner because there are a dozen candy wrappers in his pocket. I confess that I often live here, surprised by my lack of hunger for the living God but slow to consider how I have given myself to the seemingly innocent distractions of little phone games or ESPN throughout the day (or throughout the season). As C.S. Lewis puts it, “Having allowed oneself to drift, unresisting, unpraying, accepting every half-conscious solicitation from our desires,” we are then shocked at our lack of spiritual fervor (The Great Divorce, 38). We make a mockery of David’s singular aim of God-gazing in Psalm 27:4, betraying our true practice in this ungodly paraphrase:

Twenty-six things have I asked of the Lord, and those will I seek after . . . gazing upon his beauty is peripherally one of them.

So, if your affections for God aren’t accurately reflecting the goodness of who he is, first take an honest inventory of your prayer life, your thought life, your diet, and (perhaps especially) your screen time. Perhaps you will find that you are an average hyper-stimulated citizen of the twenty-first century, giving in to secular liturgies with every free moment.

When the Dryness Remains

But when that inventory is taken, the competing liturgies are stripped away (or at least taken captive to the obedience of Christ), and that spiritual dryness remains, what then? What of the seasons when I put my head under the normal waterfall of grace, and I still feel thirsty? Or worse, when my thirst is as weak as the trickle that falls from the expected fountainhead? What if, like Heman the Ezrahite in Psalm 88, “Every day I call upon you, O Lord; I spread out my hands to you,” but “I suffer your terrors; I am helpless” (Psalm 88:9, 15)?

Many have experienced deserts vaster and drier than my own, but I can offer a few helps from my mixture of faithfulness and failure in this area.

1. Trace sunbeams back to the Sun.

I once met with a Christian counselor after getting fed up with my hyperactive mind, my questions about God, and the ensuing distance from him I felt. That counselor gave me some simple advice I have carried ever since: use creation to taste the goodness of the Lord. He told me to take moments to be more tactile and less cerebral, touching a leaf to remember God’s brightness and liveliness, feeling a breeze to remember his gentleness. Gamers today advise one another to “touch grass,” and if we are using said grass-touching to trace sunbeams back to the Sun, it’s not bad advice (James 1:17).

2. Let art wake you up.

God is not boring. In his presence is fullness of joy (Psalm 16:11). But my own drabness dirties my lens for seeing him, so I often employ the aid of musicians and filmmakers to turn my experiential prose into poetry. God has gifted some with the ability to feel deeply and, even better, to depict their emotions vividly. Borrow from them. My tear ducts regularly run dry until God opens them through the haunting, heavenly sounds of Sigur Rós or the depiction of fatherly pursuit in Finding Nemo.

3. Engage the poor and marginalized.

I assume that most of the world, for most of history, has struggled less with longing for God than we do in the prosperous and peaceful West. I currently live in a town called Mount Pleasant, and the back half of the name fits (not so much the front: our highest point above sea level is seven feet). So, in a Monday-morning pastors’ meeting, our senior pastor asked, “How do we keep longing for heaven here?” He was heeding the warning of Hosea 13:5–6:

It was I who knew you in the wilderness,     in the land of drought;but when they had grazed, they became full,     they were filled, and their heart was lifted up;     therefore they forgot me.

Yes, we have the universal wake-up calls of sin, aging, disease, and death to keep our longings aimed at eternity, but the contrast between Mount Pleasant and heaven doesn’t always seem so stark. Seeking to build heaven on earth is a recipe for numbness. When we tie our life to those of the poor, the fatherless, the widow, or the refugee, we not only heed the heart of God but also remember more regularly the brokenness of our current age.

4. Gaze at Jesus, not your affections.

I spent too many years checking my spiritual blood pressure and becoming immediately discouraged by the gap between the wonders of God and the gospel on the one hand and my puny affections on the other. It became a tooth-gritting (and losing) battle that was eventually resolved (and continues to be) by acknowledging the full sufficiency of my Substitute.

“Unsatiated hunger for God is the fitting experience of the believer before glory.”

I remember driving around the University of Minnesota in my white Nissan Quest minivan in a yelling match with the Lord as my questions and self-doubts tied me in knots. By God’s grace, it finally came to me: Jesus’s affections for his Father were perfectly aligned with the magnitude of divine beauty. The strength of his faith was one hundred percent. Why had I been assuming that my sinful actions required a crucifixion, but my affections and faith were on my shoulders? I asked Jesus to take the lump sum of my weakness, including my paltry hunger for him, and to cover it with his blood. Though less dramatic, my experience was not dissimilar to Martin Luther’s: “The gates of paradise were opened to me.”

My gaze shifted. And the strangest thing happened: when my subjective affections ceased to be the basis of my confidence, they began to grow. Jesus’s gracious sufficiency to cover and carry me made him seem as wonderful as he actually is.

5. Wait.

I have often swallowed the microwave mantra of our instant-gratification society. I don’t go to Wendy’s if the drive-through is too long. I feel the impulse to reach for my phone if two people are in front of me at the grocery store. This disease makes me feel as though a day or week or month of spiritual dryness is abnormal, even unjust. Waiting, though a prominent theme across the pages of Scripture, does not have popular appeal. Yet Jeremiah commends it:

The Lord is good to those who wait for him,     to the soul who seeks him.It is good that one should wait quietly     for the salvation of the Lord.It is good for a man that he bear     the yoke in his youth.Let him sit alone in silence     when it is laid on him;let him put his mouth in the dust —     there may yet be hope. (Lamentations 3:25–29)

It is good to wait? Why? There may be some speculation here, but I think our taste for the unseen God is best cultivated when we are conscious of the dry and desert land that is this fallen world without God’s visible, tangible presence. The entire life of a believer can rightly be described as a fast, beset with hunger pangs until Jesus’s return (Matthew 9:15). Unsatiated hunger for God is the fitting experience of the believer before glory. Feeling that this is not the way it’s supposed to be is the way it’s supposed to be — for now.

But now is so very brief in the grand scheme. To quote Gandalf, soon “the grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it . . . white shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise” (The Lord of the Rings, 1030). In that instant, we will see and so become like Jesus (1 John 3:2), and all our nagging numbness and depressing doubts will be put to death. Take heart, feeble-faithed believer; he will carry you there.

I have long been a mental maniac. I ruminate over unanswerable questions, turning the concepts of God and the universe over in my head to examine them from different angles, seeking to find clarity, certainty, and even mastery of the “metanarrative.” As a young adult, by some mixture of my pride and the societal value placed on intellectual aptitude, I considered that hyperactive mental posture to be positive, if not godly.

Enter G.K. Chesterton. He met me a century after he wrote Orthodoxy with words that were conviction to a prideful soul and balm to a tired mind:

To accept everything is an exercise, to understand everything a strain. The poet only asks to get his head into the heavens. It is the logician who seeks to get the heavens into his head. And it is his head that splits. (8)

“My mind cannot begin to hold the multidimensional mysteries of the universe.”

He confronted me with the stark reality that my mind cannot begin to hold the multidimensional mysteries of the universe. It cannot retain ages, nations, or species, much less shape them.

Magic in the Mystery

Chesterton opened a door that the almighty God walked through. His sarcastic diatribe against Job began to hit home: “Have you commanded the morning since your days began, and caused the dawn to know its place, that it might take hold of the skirts of the earth, and the wicked be shaken out of it?” (Job 38:12–13). The questions are obviously rhetorical, but I hadn’t thoroughly considered how they applied to my arrogant, anxious thought life. Trying to figure out the world from a God’s-eye view was both sinful and maddening.

But my experience of God didn’t end in his mockery of me. I’m not sure that it even started there. He was simply asking me, with a knowing smile (in my mind’s eye), to breathe, to be a happy little creature in a vast world of his making. There was nowhere for me to run from his reality and no wand in my hand to change it as I saw fit.

“Mystery became magic where it had formerly been madness.”

Armed with my newfound smallness, creatureliness, and acknowledged mental ceiling, I began to wade into his infinite sea without trying to calm its waves. I began to embrace my place, owning my relative nothingness, and I watched the wide world, whether the things seen or the things unseen, become less wearisome and more wondrous. Mystery became magic where it had formerly been madness.

Head in the Heavens

Honestly, some twenty years after my first reading of Orthodoxy, the struggle is still very real. My god-complex will fight to the death, desiring control and stability on its own terms. But my patient heavenly Father is more relentless than my mind. He continues to impress several lessons upon me that began with Chesterton’s admonition.

1. The fathomless truths of God are meant to induce awe, not anxiety.

Our triune God sits in the heavens and does whatever he pleases (Psalm 115:3). He declares the end from the beginning (Isaiah 46:10). He wrote the law behind the universe. He just is. Those are mysteries that inevitably bring the poet to his knees with his gaze fixed, wonder-filled, upon the heavens.

To the theological logician, such glories are unsettling. I remember John Piper saying once that if the deep mysteries of God don’t draw you to worship, put them down for a moment until they can. Repentance is often needed, but then again, we can handle only momentary glances of truth into the preexistent Godhead. Awe is the aim, not divine understanding. “Such knowledge,” the creature confesses, “is too wonderful for me; it is high; I cannot attain it” (Psalm 139:6).

2. “Because God is God” is an acceptable answer.

When I was a new parent, I idealistically avoided the “because I told you so” or “because I’m your dad” refrains. I have come to embrace them, not so much because of their inherent convenience but because they allow my children to humbly and contentedly bow to a wiser authority. They must confront their clay-ness and allow themselves to be molded by their parental under-potters. Rebuttals must end. “Why?” questions, when chased to their end, inevitably yield the same answer: “Because God is God.” When we receive those words with the proper posture, they excite in us a sense of what C.S. Lewis calls the “Numinous,” an experience of the yawning gap between his being and ours.

3. The cross of Christ makes the awe-ful deity exhilarating.

Numinousness on its own isn’t necessarily a comfort. Some of my children (as well as most small dogs) find thunderstorms dreadful. Rightly so. They are the rumbling expression of the power of a mysterious God. I was similarly rattled as a child, but I have come to embrace the storms because I have come to understand that my Father sends forth the lightning, and he has told every bolt where to go (Job 38:35).

He has demonstrated his love for me, but that cozy fact doesn’t diminish the exhilaration of his God-ness. It enables me to cease my fearful attempts at control. I am simply chained to the mast with a front-row seat to the storm. I am still afraid, but afraid in a profoundly new way. Lewis illustrates the Christian numinous experience by citing The Wind in the Willows, as Rat and Mole approached the god Pan:

“Rat,” he found breath to whisper, shaking, “Are you afraid?”

“Afraid?” murmured the Rat, his eyes shining with unutterable love. “Afraid? of Him? O, never, never! And yet — and yet — O Mole, I am afraid.”

4. Even in glory, we will not have all the answers.

I often hear people comfort each other in trials by offering the hope of full understanding of all God’s purposes once we meet him after death. I am not convinced of this at all. While Jesus prays for our oneness with the Godhead in John 17, he doesn’t promise that we will become gods ourselves. I find it far more likely that our glorified selves will respond like Job’s on the tail end of God’s aforementioned rebuke:

I know that you can do all things,     and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted.‘Who is this that hides counsel without knowledge?’     Therefore I have uttered what I did not understand,things too wonderful for me, which I did not know. (Job 42:2–3)

Communion with God is not primarily the procurement of knowledge; it is learning to admire God as he is while admitting who we are.

I am still far from a perfect poet. I’m still prone to analyze where I should bow. I am still learning to sing,

O Lord, my heart is not lifted up;     my eyes are not raised too high;I do not occupy myself with things     too great and too marvelous for me. (Psalm 131:1)

But my forgiving and unfathomable Father is ushering me deeper into the happy surrender of poetic admiration.

A dear and discouraged friend lamented to me recently, “How do we minister in this climate?” He wasn’t talking about the humid subtropical weather pattern of the Carolinas (which is generally quite pleasant). He was referring to the ministry environment of the younger generation in the early 2020s.

A few conflicting responses arose within me.

Feeling the Pain

My first response was, essentially, I feel your pain.

The ministry I work with, Campus Outreach, focuses on life-on-life evangelism and discipleship. In my two-plus decades in campus ministry, I have not encountered a moment quite as challenging as this one. I believe that a conflation of cultural factors (COVID, technology, and modern philosophies, to name a few) has brought us to this place. While every individual and subculture is distinct, I have an educated hunch that most ministers in the Western world are experiencing many (if not all) of the following challenges on some level.

1. Fear of the Social Unknown

For the past two years, I haven’t witnessed much direct fear of COVID from young people. I have witnessed, however, their sheer terror in the face of new social situations. The trend was alarming in the years immediately preceding COVID (though I think it may have been more akin to FOMO in the 2010s), but it’s off the charts now.

The fear of being seen and known, of connecting with and building close relationships with others, while not remotely a new fear, has been given fresh license in the sanctioned isolation of the last two years. So, an invitation to any organic, communal platform for relationship — a retreat, a conference, even an ultimate frisbee game — is met with more reluctance than I have ever previously encountered.

2. Isolation in Public

To quote Tony Reinke, “The smartphone is causing a social reversal: the desire to be alone in public and never alone in private” (12 Ways Your Phone Is Changing You, 124). There have been venues where this reversal was already coming to fruition, even as far back as twenty years ago: the gym and the airplane, for example. But the social acceptability of a screen in hand (and eyes on it) means that gaining access to a person’s eyes implies interruption. The screen (and headphones!) is a social stiff-arm, a means of saying, “Don’t talk to me!” without having to be rude.

The wide world, therefore, becomes an extension of the living room, where risks have been minimized and the channels of communication are tightly controlled. Few truly experience what Bilbo spoke to Frodo about in The Fellowship of the Ring: “It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.” It’s a wonderful quote, but it may have been rendered moot. If we can find a way to bring our recliners with us, the transformation will be complete. And the living room has always felt too personal to invade.

3. Loss of the Moral High Ground

Historically, my evangelistic interactions, whether with strangers or friends, have elicited a “should” factor from the recipients of the gospel. Their resistance to Jesus was often met with a counterbalancing sense that Christianity was nevertheless the right way. The moral way. But the current zeitgeist associates Christianity with ignorance, bigotry, and oppression. So now, we aren’t simply trying to convince people that life surrendered to Jesus is better than whatever the world of sex and money and power offers; we are trying to convince them that Christians aren’t inherently racist, sexist, and abusive.

4. Loss of the ‘Villain’ Category

In recent years, you may have noticed the preponderance of films, especially in the Disney canon, that tell the backstory of a classical villain (Maleficent, Cruella, Joker, to name a few). In each of the stories, the villain is portrayed as misunderstood and deeply wounded. To be fair, generational sin in a broken world is complex. But the contrast between the portrayal of Maleficent in Sleeping Beauty and in the more recent film where she is the titular character is striking.

Therapeutic language, with all of its benefits and drawbacks, has won over our society in a comprehensive way (I heartily recommend Carl Trueman’s The Rise and Triumph of the Modern Self for a thorough treatment of this trend). Twenty years ago, some pastors and theologians were vigorously countering the gospel of self-esteem. Today, many are rightly acknowledging and resisting previously overlooked abuses, but I am afraid that, in the process, the old self-esteem has entered through the back door.

A pastor I admire once presented the alliteration “Villain, Victim, Victor” to capture the categories in which all followers of Christ simultaneously find themselves. We are perpetrators of sin against God and others (villains), recipients of the sins of others (victims), and overcomers of sin through the finished work of Christ on the cross and the daily work of the Holy Spirit within (victors).

“The only doorway to the kingdom of Christ is through acknowledgment of personal villainy.”

In my experience, the personal category of villain has been largely erased. The category of victim is assumed, and affirmation of victory, even in the context of failure, is a given (“We’re all winners!”). But the only doorway to the kingdom of Christ is through acknowledgment of personal villainy. When there are widely accepted philosophical defenses to keep us from darkening that doorway, ministry is significantly more challenging.

5. Endless Buffet of Distractions

Life-on-life discipleship takes hours, days, months, and even years of commitment. It requires sustained scriptural focus. It takes single-mindedness and intentional relationships — qualities more easily attained without a constant barrage of stimuli, whether for entertainment (Netflix, YouTube, TikTok), human connection (Instagram, Snapchat, Facebook), or information (podcasts, TED talks, articles — yes, I see the irony). Those distractions have drastically diminished the felt need for true community, for the discipline of silence and solitude, and for a true Paul to one’s Timothy.

Spoiled to Inflated Expectations

So, my first response was, I feel your pain. But then my second response was this: we have been spoiled.

American gospel ministry in the last half-century, especially on the college campus, has been nearly unparalleled in its fruitfulness. I sat in a room of more than seven hundred Campus Outreach staff in 2013, and the meeting host asked all who had come to faith in college through the ministry to stand. Some three-fourths of the room left their seats.

These staff had mostly attended college in the late 1990s and early 2000s, when ministry numbers were booming. As a student, I was part of a ministry that comprised nearly 10 percent of the entire enrollment of a “secular” college. The harvest of millennials was ripe on America’s campuses. Meanwhile, across the world, faithful missionaries were battling to translate the Scriptures, learn cultures, and hopefully see a convert or a few over years of ministry. They still are.

“We need to recapture the wonder of a single heart made new.”

With a background in such manifest fruitfulness, I have found, at least for myself, that I need to recapture a healthy theology of the cross, whereby we are poured out, sometimes agonizingly, for the formation of disciples (Galatians 4:19). We need to recapture the wonder of a single heart made new (Ezekiel 36:26). We need to recall the counterintuitive contentment that comes from seemingly fruitless ministry (1 Corinthians 15:58), and even the strange joy of suffering shame for the name of Christ (Acts 5:41). Which leads to my third and final response.

Hasn’t It Always Been Tough?

From feeling the pain, to needing to recalibrate assumptions, I also asked, Hasn’t it always been this way in some form or another?

In other words, is it possible that hitting the panic button during any given cultural moment is a bit reactionary? Our commitment to biblical Christianity requires us to believe that the Scriptures are sufficient to equip us to address the challenges of modern life and ministry (2 Timothy 3:16–17). It can only follow that they are timeless, implying that both the human condition in the twenty-first century and the cultural challenges of our day have not strayed too far from those in biblical times. I find it incredibly helpful to recall timeless spiritual realities when ministry moments seem bleak.

All still have the hardwired inclination to exchange the truth of God for a lie in order to worship and serve the creature (or the self) rather than the Creator (Romans 1:24–25). Christ crucified is still the stench of death to those who don’t have the Holy Spirit (2 Corinthians 2:15–16). And the ministers themselves still flag at times, struggling to continue to speak the aromatic gospel of Christ, always needing renewed faith, hope, and love.

People back then had a God-shaped void in their hearts. They were made for intimacy with God and with their fellow man, even as they suppressed the truth in unrighteousness. They longed to know and be known and were simultaneously terrified of that intimacy.

So, to quote Ellis in No Country for Old Men, “What you got ain’t nothing new.” In a foundational sense, in the ways that matter most, the resistance was exactly the same in AD 50 as it is in 2022. Daunting indeed.

But if the resistance is fundamentally the same, so too is the Spirit who indwells us with divine power. The word of the cross has never ceased being folly to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved, it has never stopped being the power of God (1 Corinthians 1:18). He has never stopped using foolish things to shame the wise, jars of clay to carry treasure (1 Corinthians 1:27; 2 Corinthians 4:7). And if that is true, then there will be a multitude that no one can count from every tribe, tongue, people, and nation who surround the throne of the Lamb (Revelation 7:9).

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever (Hebrews 13:8). So, no matter the spiritual climate, we offer him to the world with hope.

“Romance is the privilege of the rich, not the profession of the unemployed,” wrote Oscar Wilde. “The poor should be practical and prosaic.” I can partially relate to this sentiment.

While I am not, in any estimation, to be numbered among the financially poor, I may be considered more impoverished in the currencies of independence and time. I am a father of five. My wife is currently recovering from COVID-19, and we are rounding out our second extended quarantine of the last two months. And in the last few days, two of our children’s stomachs have decided to expel their contents.

Our world orbits around need; and needs call for a more practical and prosaic season of life that all but excludes the possibility of romance, right? Quality time — undistracted and full of energy — seems like the privilege of the bourgeois.

But is it? Should we pause romance in this season? Should we simply acknowledge that we are shoulder-to-shoulder, not face-to-face, as we battle for the kindness and cleanliness of our kids?

Why Romance Is Worth Pursuing

I don’t believe we should pause romance in the demanding and chaotic world of parenting. Consider at least three reasons why.

First, delight in beauty is the sustaining substance of life. The battlefield of child-rearing is not for the faint of heart. Without consistent moments to be refueled together by the beauty of God in his creation (I’m thinking Psalm 19-style sunrises and sunsets, rich flavors, unforgettable melodies, and especially the divine image in each other), we will succumb to fatigue and forget why we’re raising the children to begin with.

Second, children need their parents’ affection for each other. God created parenting to be a completion of joy, an overflow of it. It is a Trinitarian image, whereby the mutual delight of the parents spills itself into creation. To quote thirteenth-century theologian Meister Eckhart (speaking in human terms and however imprecisely), “God laughed and begot the Son. Together they laughed and begot the Holy Spirit. And from the laughter of the Three, the universe was born.”

The nourishing and cherishing of Ephesians 5 doesn’t simply transfer to your children. “No one ever hated his own flesh, but nourishes and cherishes it, just as Christ does the church” (Ephesians 5:29) — I am convicted as I type. Spouses (with a special emphasis on husbands) are called to invest deeply into one another, with the nourishing and cherishing of one’s own body, implying more than mere functional living or co-laboring. “Cherish,” after all, is not a prosaic word. It is infused with deep delight, the kind of word husbands search for to express their affection in a poem or song.

Practical Advice for Married Couples

So, let’s get practical (but not prosaic). What might romance look like in the season of survival on the Serengeti that is parenting?

What follows is a list that mingles my own successes, failures, sin, and idealism, ranging from the mundane to the magical. Okay, mostly mundane. Most of it lives miles from a gondola in Venice, but placed on the battle for the souls of your children, every intentional face-to-face moment really helps. Take what helps.

1. Wake up together.

Most husbands need less sleep than their wives, but trying to coordinate either sleep or wake time can be good for your marriage. For us, it’s been wake time most recently. We get up most mornings before the kids are stirring. Yes, it’s dark. It feels like the middle of the night (because it is) and our eyes are bleary. But the world is quiet and we rehearse the mercies of God out loud to one another, and of course to him, as we paraphrase the Psalms. We directly thank him for the undeserved gift of one another — boom, romance.

2. Take a few minutes to connect.

This must be intentional, and it usually can’t be during dinner. Dinner is a wonderful opportunity to shepherd your children, but in most larger families, it is likely too chaotic to be a face-to-face moment with a spouse. The moment I’m speaking of is right after the kids are in bed. The reason it must be intentional is that you are likely drifting into a trance of fatigue, and some form of unwinding seeks your attention. But so does your spouse’s soul. And to turn to one another, without the television on or the phone in hand, and simply say, “Tell me about your day,” is fresh wind for your marriage. I might even recommend a few fun questions to pull from a hat in order to engage one another with more intrigue and substance.

3. Play.

After ten o’clock on most nights, my wife loses much of her filter to weariness and goes into full sass mode. She throws playful jabs my way and laughs until she cries, and I tend to amplify her delight with my over-the-top responses. It would probably look to the outsider like two middle school kids flirting, but it is an ironic display of marital safety and affection that is probably indispensable in this season. I would be hard-pressed to overstate the value of humor as a means of romantic connection.

4. Write to one another.

Even if you say you’re not a “words of affirmation” person, you are more than you realize. Your spouse is too. And when the words are written rather than simply spoken, they affect us powerfully. I think it’s because those words reflect deeper thought, deeper consideration, and deeper investment of time than something more spontaneous. That’s why a text message stating affection is good, but a sonnet is better. Or even a limerick if you’re not into iambic pentameter.

5. Get out into creation.

The heavens declare the romantic heart of God. The sun exclaims the joy and love of the Bridegroom (Psalm 19:1–5). A breeze whispers his gentleness, and the autumn leaves remind us of the beauty of Christ’s death. It doesn’t take the reservation of an Airbnb in Montana to engage the created world together. We sat on the back porch for a few minutes this week and marveled at the sudden bright yellows of the leaves behind the house. Consistent peeks outside or regular walks around the neighborhood, especially hand in hand, can bring peace to chaos. Speaking of hand in hand . . .

6. Show physical affection.

Keep holding hands in public. Or start holding hands in public. Half-mindlessly rub her back while you’re sitting on the couch. Don’t let the heckling of your teenagers keep you from a spontaneous hug in the kitchen. There was a moment, likely when you were dating, when the brush of your now-spouse’s hand was electric. The same desire, albeit without the giddiness, still resides in you. Touch is connection, and connection between two desire-laden, God-imaging souls is at the heart of romance.

7. Recall the wonders of God in your family’s life.

This is a clear command and practice in Scripture (see Psalm 136), and it is a poetic moment when practiced well. It ought to be a normative part of your prayer life, but we find it helpful to also formalize the practice. Each year on our anniversary, we pull out a journal and jog our memories about all the big events and sweet moments of the previous year. It is a connecting moment of sentiment, laughter, and gratitude.

8. Get away and dream.

This is a privilege that not all parents have the resources to enact. It requires willing babysitters (often family because of the sizable commitment) and sometimes money. We went three years without a night away at one point. And again, it doesn’t have to be in some exotic bungalow in Fiji. But one of our fonder marital memories was a simple switching of houses with my parents for a night so that we could come out of the winds and talk uninterruptedly about what the Lord might have for our future.

9. Play music.

I don’t mean that you need to turn your family into the Von Trapps. If anyone in your family can conjure a melody with voice or violin, all the better, but I am here referring to a simple song in the background. Whether it’s a hymn (Indelible Grace gets a lot of air time in our household), a soundtrack, or a beat to dance to, music awakens the soul. It allows easier access to emotion and meaning in the mundane moments. Use the gift of Spotify or a phonograph.

10. Speak the delights of God to your spouse.

While this is an admittedly shoulder-to-shoulder activity (since your collective gaze is elsewhere), it is akin to watching a sunset or a play, only with deeper relational weight. After all, you are fostering the romance between your spouse and the true Bridegroom. To speak the wonders of God’s holiness, his fatherly delight, and the wonders of his love, is to kindle the soul. So don’t just memorize Scripture. Memorize it in order to tell her of the dimensions of the love of Christ, and so fill her with the fullness of God (Ephesians 3:19).

Life, even the life of a child-chasing parent, is magical. And marriage, even the mostly shoulder-to-shoulder kind that is stretched to its limit by fatigue and chaos, is still a picture of Christ and the church. Ask your heavenly Bridegroom for eyes to see that afresh and the energy to enact a bit of intentional romance.