In the early 90s, it seemed like every guy who could get his hands on a guitar learned how to play More Than Words by Extreme to impress a girl. My husband was one of those guys. We were early in our dating relationship when he picked up his guitar and played and sang it to me. I was young and in love, and of course I thought it was romantic. I mean, what girl wouldn’t want the guy she was falling in love with to pick up a guitar and sing a love song to her?

I’ve thought about that song several times lately, and the irony of it isn’t lost on me now. Because I have been waiting for for a long time for more than words.

Words do matter to me. I want to hear “I love you.” I want an apology when someone hurts me. I want someone to tell me they understand. I want to hear that things are going to be different. And for a long time, I think words gave me hope. Maybe sometimes they gave me enough hope that I didn’t look very closely at what came after them. I heard a lot of “I’m sorry.” I heard a lot of “I won’t do it again” I heard promises that things were going to change. I wanted to believe those words and sometimes I did. But eventually words that aren’t followed by change start to lose their meaning.

I didn’t understand that when I was a young woman listening to him play his guitar. I probably thought love was something you proved with big romantic gestures. Flowers. Love songs. Saying the right things. Maybe that is part of love. Those things can be meaningful. But thirty-plus years of marriage have taught me that love is usually proven in much less romantic ways.

It is keeping your word when nobody is reminding you. It is paying attention when someone tells you they are hurting. It is changing behavior when you realize what you are doing is causing harm. It is keeping commitments. It is telling the truth when the truth is uncomfortable. It is respecting a boundary even when you don’t like it. It is doing the work you said you were going to do without someone having to ask whether you did it. It is consistency.

Maybe that’s what I mean when I say I need more than words. I don’t need more promises. I don’t need to hear that this time is going to be different. I don’t need another apology followed by another explanation of why the same thing happened again. I don’t need to be convinced that he means it this time. I don’t expect perfection. I expect learning and learning should eventually show changed behavior.

I know this is a season where there are going to be mistakes. Learning a different way of living and responding after years of doing things one way isn’t going to happen overnight. Grace leaves room for mistakes. But grace doesn’t mean pretending that repeated patterns are growth. If something happens and he recognizes that it hurt me, I need him to learn from it. If he understands something today that he didn’t understand yesterday, eventually that understanding should change the way he responds tomorrow. If he apologizes for a behavior, eventually I should see less of that behavior. Not because I reminded him. Not because I explained it one more time. Not because I managed his recovery well enough to get him there. Because he learned.

And learning should eventually produce fruit. John the Baptist said, “Produce fruit in keeping with repentance” (Matthew 3:8). I keep coming back to that. Repentance isn’t just saying words about what happened. It isn’t feeling terrible about it. It isn’t promising not to do it again. Those things may be part of repentance, but eventually repentance becomes visible. There should be fruit.

Maybe right now some of that fruit is still small. Maybe it looks like catching an old behavior sooner. Taking responsibility without being asked. Respecting a boundary the first time. Following through on something he said he would do. Choosing honesty when hiding would be easier. Recognizing my pain without immediately defending himself against it. I don’t need promises that fruit is coming. I need time to watch what grows.

Because after more than thirty years of words, they don’t make me feel safe anymore. Words can’t rebuild trust by themselves. Words can’t convince me that something has changed. Only the fruit that follows them can do that.

It is strange to think about that young woman sitting there listening to the man she loved play More Than Words on his guitar. She couldn’t possibly have known what the next thirty years would hold. She didn’t know how much those words would eventually mean to her, although not the way the writer of the song intended.

I don’t need someone to sing me a love song anymore. I need a love that becomes visible in ordinary, consistent faithfulness. Maybe that is what I have been asking for all along.

–Aimee
September 1, 2026