The real romantics imagine greying and sagging and wrinkling as

The words of Ann Voskamp—“The real romantics imagine greying and sagging and wrinkling as the deepening of something sacred”—speak as a hymn to time, to love, and to the enduring beauty of commitment. In an age that often worships youth and fears the passing years, Voskamp proclaims a greater truth: that the marks of age are not decay, but transformation. They are not the erosion of beauty, but the unveiling of sacred depth, the testament of lives woven together through joy, through trial, through long endurance.

The origin of such wisdom lies not in fleeting romance but in covenant, in the bonds that grow stronger not in spite of time, but because of it. The world teaches us to value what is smooth, unwrinkled, and new. Yet the true romantic sees further. They imagine the couple who have weathered decades together, whose faces bear lines carved by shared laughter and tears, and who find in those signs not loss but evidence of a profound journey. For love that endures does not fade with age—it ripens, it thickens, it becomes holy.

History remembers such examples. Consider the tale of John and Abigail Adams, whose marriage spanned over fifty years. Through war, separation, political upheaval, and the burdens of state, their love endured. Their letters, written across distances, reveal not only passion but deep respect, trust, and shared vision. As their hair greyed and their bodies weakened, their love became no less—it grew, maturing into something even more enduring. Their union shows what Voskamp declares: that wrinkling and aging can be the marks of love’s sacred flourishing.

There is a quiet heroism in this vision. To see beauty only in youth requires no depth of soul, but to find beauty in age, in fragility, in decline—this is the work of the real romantic. It demands courage to stand beside another as the years take their toll, and to say: these changes do not diminish you, they sanctify you. In this way, love becomes not merely passion but devotion, not merely sweetness but sacrifice.

The lesson is this: do not fear the passage of time with the one you love. Instead, honor it. Each wrinkle is a story, each grey hair a testimony, each sign of aging a thread in the tapestry of something eternal. To love only in spring is easy, but to love in autumn and winter is to discover the true depth of romance. This is the sacred task to which Voskamp points us: to see time not as a thief, but as a consecrator.

Practically, we must learn to embrace the marks of age in ourselves and in those we love. Instead of lamenting the fading of youth, let us give thanks for the years that have been given. Cherish the long walks, the daily rituals, the quiet companionship that deepens over decades. Speak words of gratitude to those who have stood by you through the storms of time. Teach the young that beauty is not lost in age but fulfilled in it, so that they may learn to honor what is lasting, not what is fleeting.

Thus, Voskamp’s words stand as a beacon against a culture obsessed with the surface. The real romantics do not idolize the brief fire of youth alone; they revere the slow-burning flame that grows steadier with time. They see in greying and wrinkling not decline, but consecration.

So let this truth be handed down: love is not diminished by the years—it is made sacred by them. To imagine age as holy is to discover that the deepest beauty is not in the perfection of the body, but in the endurance of the soul’s devotion. This is the romance that outlasts all seasons, the romance that becomes eternal.