My marriage didn’t need another verse on the wall.

Who I Am

I’m a husband from Detroit. An only child, raised without a father in the home.

I gave my life to Christ at ten years old — and by fifteen, a question started stalking me that wouldn’t let go for twenty-five years:

I know I’m saved, but how do I love Him back?

What Happened to Me

For twenty-five years I hunted a practical definition of love. Not the feeling — the execution. What does it actually look like, on a Tuesday, when she’s venting and I’m exhausted?

I boiled it down to three words: patience, kindness, truth.

Then God did what God does. He didn’t hand me a book. He handed me a wife. Then five kids. Then He sat an older married man named Lonny in front of me — a man who laid down his pride, his money, his time, daily, for his wife and children — and watched my three neat words catch fire.

Because here’s what the church never told me straight: Jesus doesn’t do moderate. The Father didn’t moderately give His Son. The Son didn’t moderately put on skin and bleed out for people who hated Him. Turn the cheek. Go the extra mile. Give the shirt off your back and the coat too. That’s not balance —

that’s extremism with a halo on it.

And here’s the part that wrecked me: I can’t do it. Not on my best day. The love God commands is so extreme that the only way to execute it is through the Holy Spirit. My flesh wants to GET — my way, my comfort, my vindication. The Spirit wants to GIVE — through me — if I’ll get out of the way.

For three years I was the sole breadwinner and I turned “provider” into a permission slip. Paid the bills, skipped the dying.

God used my wife’s patience to rewire me, and Lonny’s life to show me the standard. I stopped asking “what’s fair in my marriage” and started asking “what’s the next escalation?”

What I’ve Been Working On

So I built Luv Your Wife — and its engine, Luv Like Christ.

You bring the real moment — the fight last night, the cold shoulder at breakfast, the thing you’re too proud to say first — and it shows you the move. Not advice. The move. Tiered from hard to almost-unhealthy, because “love your wife like Christ loved the church” was never meant to be comfortable.

And then comes the part that changed everything for me — the handoff.

I’m the quarterback. My power was never the execution — it’s the play call. The decision. I read the moment, I choose love, I place the ball in His hands.

God is the running back. His power is the run — the patience I don’t have, the kindness I can’t manufacture, the dying to self I keep dodging.

I don’t get stronger. I hand it off.

You call the play. He runs it.

That’s the whole thing. That’s the twenty-five years.

The power isn’t yours. The handoff is.