My husband Mark, like most males, is obsessed with old Westerns and war movies. Our little home is filled with the sound of pew pews, the whining of planes nosediving, and folks screaming as they fall off horses.

I can watch for about ten seconds. To me, it is loud and scary; to him, it is intensely interesting.

Last night, I retreated to the kitchen to cook dinner. I still could hear what was happening and so decided to find something, anything to occupy my overactive imagination.

I don’t watch much TV, except for news shows or some ’90s sitcoms Mark and I watch together. The whole streaming thing is too overwhelming with too many choices, and I usually scroll for a few minutes and give up. If I do find anything of interest, it is a movie I have watched many times before.

At the top of the list on Amazon Prime was a documentary about Fred Rogers titled “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” I had never seen it before, but I could hear the ding-ding of the trolley car in my head. Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood was one of my favorite shows when I was little.

Seen through the jaded lenses of our decade, Fred Rogers likely would’ve been considered odd or worse, but he appeared to be exactly what his TV persona was: a kind, forward-thinking soul who loved and cherished children. He respected and protected the magic of childhood. He believed it was important, necessary, and good to protect those you love.

When my husband is on stage playing in our church worship band, he often signals me by raising his index finger, then all four fingers, then three. The one finger means ‘I,’ the four fingers mean ‘Love,’ and the three fingers mean ‘You.’ I wondered how he came up with that but never asked.

I found out from the documentary that he learned that from watching Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood when he was a small boy.

In our wedding vows, we promised to ‘forsake all others.’ We are to guard each other’s hearts. We must become a soft place for our spouse to land, where each can speak freely, but gently, always fiercely protecting tender spots.

There is a sculpture called Love by Ukrainian artist Alexander Milov. It consists of two wire figures, a couple, sitting back-to-back as though they are fighting. Inside each figure is a small child, each trying to reach the other, trying to touch hands through the wire.

It is heartbreakingly true how often our pride and self-love keep us from extending mercy. Deep inside, we all carry burdens of worry, scars from the past, and fears of the future.

Mark and I promised in our vows to show mercy and love, as Jesus does every second of every day for us. We promised to protect each other’s hearts, above all others. Always, and as best as we can.

At our wedding, we each had a framed childhood photo beside the other on a table. Those same photos now sit in our foyer as a reminder to honor and guard those two children who took 50-plus years to finally meet.

We also have a small plaque in our kitchen that reads, “I remember the times I prayed for the things I have now.” When I am feeling selfish or cranky (often), I look for those words and am reminded of the great blessing my husband and our marriage are.

Today is my birthday. I woke up thinking about a song I can only sing today. Paul McCartney wrote it in 1956 when he was 14, many years before I was born.

The lyrics ask, “Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m 64?”

Mark and I are grateful to have each other to say “Yes” to.

And we are so grateful to a God who remembered us, broken yet hopeful, and brought us together.

He didn’t forget us. And He never forgot you either.

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