Could all that is lost ever be found? Could a garden come up from this ground at all? You make beautiful things You make beautiful things out of the dust You make beautiful things You make beautiful things out of us. —Gungor

February already! The bustling holidays passed in a blur, January sped by, and I remember C. S. Lewis’s words: “We cannot fathom the passing of time because we were made for eternity.” I suspect it also has something to do with my age-related metabolism slowing down—time seems to move faster while I move slower. Either way, Valentine’s Day peeks around the corner, stirring different emotions in different people for different reasons: hope for some, loss for others, loneliness for many, puppy love for the young, and perhaps something deeper for the young at heart.

Wherever we find ourselves this February—married or single, widowed or waiting, content or quietly longing—we are all invited into the same deeper love: the unfading love of Christ that meets us exactly where we are. So this month, let’s talk about something deeper—like unfading love and running the race together.

Even in a loving marriage, life is never without its challenges. Marriage at any age is not easy, and when—by reason of more years—we become more set in our ways, it can be even more challenging. There is a bending, and sometimes even a breaking, of the will when we love someone enough to give up our own way. Submission was not easy the first time, but the second time we no longer take the relationship for granted. We come with a more willing spirit.

Still, there are moments when, despite that willing spirit, change threatens my sense of security and I feel the impulse to protect and defend both my point of view and my heart. Years ago, I learned the necessity of debriefing with someone in order to process change well. Change is hard because it always brings loss: loss of relationships, ways of life, possessions, ideas, expectations, hopes, and dreams.

So here’s the line-up: Every change brings loss. Every loss brings grief. And every grief must be processed. When we try to bury grief, shut it up, shame it, guilt it, or replace it with distractions, we discover it does not stay buried. Instead, it comes out sideways—often through the very things we use to numb ourselves. Grief cannot be turned on and off like a water spigot. It may remain contained for a while, but eventually pressure builds, and what is unprocessed leaks into other areas of life.

But doesn’t time heal all wounds? Time alone does not heal emotional pain. It creates space—but healing requires intention. It requires naming loss, processing emotions, finding meaning, and sometimes seeking help. Healing is not passive.

Recently, I came across old photos of us—still young and beautiful. They stirred those feelings of loss again, but I knew where to go. I cast my cares on Jesus. I met Him in His Word and through prayer journaling. In my mind, Jesus looked at those photos with me. I did not turn away. I looked straight into the ache of what I missed.

Then I turned the page of my mental photo album and saw us now reflected in the mirror: older, slower, stiffer, marked by time.

And I prayed, Oh Lord, give me grace—to accept the reality of aging in a fallen world. Help me look beyond this season to the eternal youth and beauty that await us with You.

In the quiet of the night, truth pushes back the lies of hopelessness. God often brings a song, a phrase, a reminder that He specializes in making beauty from brokenness and life from what seems worn out. As Gungor writes, “Could all that is lost ever be found? Could a garden come up from this ground at all?” What seems impossible, faith brings to light through the grace, goodness, and faithfulness of our God.

Even out of aging, aching bodies, He is still able to bring something good. My true life is not—nor ever was—found in youth or physical beauty. It is found only in the life of Jesus, poured out for me, into me, and through me to others. That is how God makes something beautiful out of dust—out of this fragile, aging clay pot of a life.

The apostle Paul writes:

For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us (2 Cor. 4:6–7).

The glory of God in Christ is the treasure. We are the clay jars—fragile, ordinary, and easily cracked—so that it is unmistakably God’s power at work, not ours. Glory carried by weakness. Light housed in frailty. Christ displayed through us.

Hebrews reminds us that we do not run this race alone:

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses… let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus (Heb. 12:1–2).

Because others have gone before me—and now cheer me on—I pray for God’s strength to lay aside what hinders me: old comparisons, lingering jealousy, quiet resentments. I ask for grace to run with perseverance the race God has chosen for me, fixing my eyes not on what once was, but on Jesus. He endured the cross for joy—joy in redeeming clay pots like me.

And so I run—not young, not beautiful by the world’s standards—but deeply loved, still becoming, and carried by a glory that does not fade.

So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away,
our inner self is being renewed day by day.
For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us
an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison.
—2 Corinthians 4:16–17

This winter forest is a my painting of unfading love. The season is bare and cold, yet the light remains—shaped not by what is added, but by what endures. The paired footprints move forward together, not in haste, but in faithfulness, marking a shared direction through the long path. Love like this is not loud or fleeting; it keeps walking, through winter, toward the light.