We Met in the Chaos of an Accident… and Almost Lost Each Other in the Calm
Hi guys,
I never thought I'd be the type to share something this personal online, but maybe someone out there needs this story.
Three years ago, I met my wife in the most unexpected way — a car accident. Not the deadly kind, thank God, but chaotic enough to total both our vehicles. I was headed to a youth outreach program; she was rushing from campus to her part-time job. Tires screeched, airbags blew, and somehow, in the middle of that twisted metal and shattered glass… we locked eyes. We exchanged insurance info, and — long story short — started talking. And then kept talking.
Fast forward, we fell in love fast— a kind of love that feels like revival fire, wild and all-consuming. We were both passionate young Christians, on fire for God, crushing it academically (I was doing my master’s in counseling, she was in med school), and everyone thought we were #goals. But behind the polished Instagram posts… we were falling apart.
Our first year of marriage was war
Not just the cute “she squeezes toothpaste wrong” kind.
Real war — silent dinners, pride, misunderstandings, me escaping into ministry, her drowning in stress, both of us praying but not together.
I thought I was the spiritually mature one — counseling young couples at church, preaching about forgiveness… but not practicing it at home. She became quieter. Tired. One night, after yet another argument, she moved into the guest room.
I thought it was over.
Until one evening during a session with a couple I was mentoring, the guy broke down and said,
_"I just wish I could see her again. Not the tired version. The her I fell in love with."_
And it hit me like a tidal wave.
I was him.
I went home, fell on my knees, and for the first time in a long time, cried out to God not aboutmy wife, but for her. Not to fix her, but to fix me. God showed me how I’d made ministry my excuse, my ego my shield, and my silence my weapon.
That night, I wrote a prayer and stuck it in our closet. Every day, I went in and prayed like it was a war room. Quietly. Consistently. I served her without agenda. We started talking — slowly, awkwardly, but honestly. Then praying together again. Then laughing again.
Today, it’s been two years since that night.
This past Sunday, I watched her raise her hands during worship, tears flowing as she whispered, “Thank You, Jesus,” with our toddler on her hip and our families around us. We’d come full circle — from the chaos of an accident to the calm of restored love.
If you’re out there and your marriage feels like it's losing its way — remember, it's not over. Sometimes God uses the fire not to destroy, but to refine.
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