My twins were invited to one of those birthday parties where the action never wanes. First was the relay race with a greased watermelon. No one actually dropped it on their foot, even when the ref squirted them with a garden hose. Then was the egg on the spoon race, and a pinata. I sat with the grown ups on the porch and chatted.

One woman had heard I run a marriage conference each year and was curious. I asked about her marriage. She and her husband are very much in love, though children and work schedules usurp most of their time.

I asked if she knew their Love Languages, and named them.

"That's it. He wants me to say I love him, and how wonderful I think he is. But come on! He already knows I love him! Saying it over and over feels fake."

This is the same woman who moments ago had described the effort she goes to to take her kids to traveling soccer games, voice lessons, field hockey practices, church, and birthday parties. She also had mentioned her love of Italian cooking, and how she had tried to learn how to make soft cheeses from her mother in law.

Apparently she did not see the irony.

Take her son to a game when she had already done it five times this month? No problem.

Boil up pasta after having fed the family every night for a year? No brainer.

Show up at work  when she had appeared on time repeatedly since last quarter? Of course.

But somehow the idea of nourishing her husband in a way that resonated for him felt forced.

I suppose if we held marriage to be a vulnerable, living entity instead of a stagnant fact like our ethnicity or social security number, we would be more inclined to feed it, wash it, and pray for it.