We want our marriage to be a triumph, not a tragedy.

Hear, O beloved, the words of Joyce Meyer, who spoke with clarity of heart: “We want our marriage to be a triumph, not a tragedy.” In this brief utterance lies the weight of human longing—for the bond of two souls joined in covenant is not a matter of chance, but of choice, of labor, of sacrifice. A marriage may ascend to glory or descend into sorrow; it may become a tale sung by future generations or a warning whispered in shame. Meyer’s words remind us that this sacred union is a battlefield where the weapons are patience and forgiveness, and the victory is found in endurance and love.

A triumph is no small word. In the days of Rome, a triumph was the grand procession of a general who returned victorious, his enemies subdued, his people rejoicing. To call marriage a triumph, then, is to see it not as mere survival but as victory: the conquering of selfishness, the overcoming of trials, the building of something worthy of honor. A marriage that triumphs is not without hardship—it is precisely hardship endured and overcome together that makes the victory sweet.

But Meyer warns also of tragedy. Tragedy, in the sense of the ancients, was not only sorrow but downfall—the fall of one great and noble thing into ruin, often through pride, neglect, or betrayal. Many marriages begin in celebration, in hope, in laughter, yet fall into bitterness, isolation, or betrayal when their guardians grow weary. Like kingdoms that collapse from within, so too can marriages crumble not by the blows of the outside world, but by the erosion of love within.

History gives us both lessons. Consider the marriage of John and Abigail Adams, partners in mind and spirit. Through long separations, through the birth of a nation, they wrote letters that revealed trust, respect, and affection. Their marriage was a triumph, for it endured the storms of politics and war and left behind a testimony of companionship. Yet think also of Henry VIII of England, whose six marriages became a tragedy of broken vows, discarded wives, and bloody consequences. His unions, guided by ambition and desire, brought not harmony but death and division. Thus we see clearly: marriage may rise as triumph or fall as tragedy, depending on how it is tended.

The meaning of Meyer’s words is therefore a call to vigilance. A triumphant marriage does not come by chance; it comes by daily choices—to forgive when wronged, to serve when tired, to listen when one would rather speak. It comes by placing the covenant above the ego, by remembering that the vow is not a chain but a shield. To allow neglect, bitterness, or pride to take root is to invite tragedy. To cultivate kindness, humility, and faith is to build triumph.

O children of tomorrow, learn from this: do not be deceived into thinking marriage is sustained by passion alone. Passion is the fire that begins, but virtue is the wood that keeps the flame alive. Triumph is not given but earned, and tragedy comes not suddenly but gradually, like a house that decays when its foundation is ignored. See to your foundation, and your house will stand.

What then must you do? Choose daily to fight for your union, not against it. Speak words of encouragement, even when tempted to criticize. Stand together against the storms, rather than apart. Seek wisdom from the ancients, who taught that love is patient and kind. And above all, pray and labor for your marriage not to be a story of ruin, but a story of victory that others may look upon with hope.

Thus, Joyce Meyer’s words resound as both warning and encouragement: “We want our marriage to be a triumph, not a tragedy.” The choice lies before every couple. May they walk the path of triumph, and in so doing, may they leave behind a legacy of love that outlasts time, a victory that crowns both hearts with honor.