David Eddings

If you asked a theologian, especially a Catholic one, to explain what marriage really means, you might expect something poetic. What you’d get, though, is something older and far more structured—something with bones as ancient as the world. They’d talk to you about the Marriage Analogy, and if you were paying attention, you’d realize they weren’t describing just a relationship. They were describing a story—a divine one, written across time, duty-bound and deeply sacred.

Now, in Catholic thinking, marriage isn’t just a contract. It’s not just “I like you, let’s live together.” No, it’s a covenant. That’s a word with weight to it. It means promises that bind, not because of feelings, but because of love that chooses. And more than that, marriage is supposed to show us what God’s love looks like when it walks among us. Not vague and shining, but close, demanding, sometimes tired, sometimes angry, but always faithful.

At the center of this is the relationship between Christ and His Church. The Church is often called His Bride. A strange metaphor, you might think, until you see how it works. Christ didn’t court the Church with flattery and fine wine. He gave Himself—completely, without flinching, even to death. It wasn’t because she was perfect. She wasn’t. But He chose her anyway. And He stays. Even when she stumbles. Even when she forgets Him.

That’s what marriage is meant to reflect.

So in this analogy, the husband loves like Christ—steadily, sacrificially, sometimes without reward. The wife loves like the Church—faithfully, trustingly, equally. Not a passive role, but a strong one. Both carry the weight. Both shape each other. Both are changed.

And here’s the tricky part: it doesn’t end. Marriage, as the Church sees it, is permanent. Not because people are particularly good at permanence, but because the love it represents is unchanging. You can’t walk away from a covenant. You can struggle, fall, and crawl your way through it, but you don’t undo it. Not if it’s real.

There’s something deeply Eddings-like about it all: two people bound together by choice and by grace, often at odds, sometimes sarcastic, occasionally foolish, but learning—slowly, stubbornly—that love is about the long road. The road you stay on. The road that shapes you into who you were meant to be.

So that’s the Marriage Analogy. Not a fairytale. Not a battlefield. Just something older than kingdoms, stitched into the fabric of creation. A story, told again and again, every time two people say “yes” and mean it—through the mess, the miracle, and the mundane.

A bit like prophecy, really. Only messier. And holier.

The Total Gift of Self might sound like a big idea, but at its heart, it’s something simple and real. It means giving all of who you are—your body, your heart, your future—to another person, without holding anything back.

In Catholic teaching, especially in Theology of the Body, this kind of love is built into the way we were made. It’s like two travelers on a long road, choosing every day to walk together, share burdens, and trust one another with their whole selves.

Marriage is the clearest example. When a husband and wife give themselves completely to each other, they don’t just promise words—they promise their very lives. They become one in body and spirit. It’s a serious promise, one that grows through good times and bad, through victories and losses.

In my stories, the closest thing to this is the loyalty and trust between friends and loved ones—people who stick by each other through thick and thin, knowing they are stronger together. Like Garion and Ce’Nedra, who choose to face dangers side by side, trusting each other fully.

Saint John Paul II called this giving “the gift of self” because it’s more than just feeling or saying love—it’s about giving, freely and fully. It’s not a transaction or a deal; it’s a sincere offering that says: “You matter to me. I am yours.”

But this gift isn’t only for marriage. Priests, single people, parents, friends—all are called to live this way. Loving with openness and generosity, even when it’s hard.

Of course, it’s not always easy. Sometimes you get hurt. Sometimes you want to pull back. But the Total Gift of Self asks us to be brave, to trust, and to keep giving.

It’s the way we become truly human, truly connected. Because God made us for love—that kind of love that asks for everything and gives everything.

That’s the Total Gift of Self. A promise. A choice. A journey.

It started, as most things do, with a plan. A divine one, no less—crafted with the kind of precision that would make even Belgarath raise an eyebrow. You see, the Creator—call Him God, if you like—wasn’t interested in making puppets or mirror images. He wanted something far more complex. He wanted partnership.

So He made Man. Not the “man” who lords over the fields with a sword, but humankind—male and female, complementary, contradictory, and altogether inconvenient when trying to build a proper tower without arguments over the foundation stones.

The point wasn’t efficiency—it was unity. And not the simplistic sort where everyone nods and agrees because it’s easier than sorting through the mess. No, this was divine unity: the kind forged in the furnace of difference, shaped by will, love, and sacrifice. A unity that echoed—however faintly—the eternal dance of the Trinity: Father, Son, and Spirit, each distinct, yet one.

Marriage, then, isn’t just a practical arrangement or a tidy way to raise children without alarming the neighbors. It’s a reflection—imperfect, certainly—of that triune mystery. When a man and woman join in covenant, they become something more than themselves. A new thing. A shared will, a forged bond. Think of it like Garion and Ce’Nedra—unlikely, frustrating, and fated. Two people so different you’d bet your last copper they’d kill each other before the first winter thaw. And yet, somehow, they grow into something remarkable.

It’s not magic in the traditional sense. No incantations or glowing runes. Just the long, slow alchemy of love: the choosing of one another, again and again, even on the days when you don’t feel like it.

And that’s the deeper truth. Unity isn’t found in sameness, or in avoiding conflict. It’s forged—like a good sword—by fire, pressure, and time. It reflects the divine not by being easy, but by being true.

It’s funny how people talk about marriage like it’s the end of a story. Like once the wedding happens, the tale’s over and everyone rides off into a sunset of shared tea and quiet evenings. But any half-decent storyteller knows—that’s just where the real adventure begins.

In the world of Catholic marriage, faithfulness isn’t about a lack of conflict. It’s about what you do when the dragon wakes up, when the road gets muddy, or when your other half is no longer the cheerful travelling companion you first set out with. Faithfulness is choosing not to abandon the quest. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

It’s a covenant, not a contract. You don’t get to back out when the terms become uncomfortable. You swore an oath, and in this world—and in God’s—oaths matter. They bind. They transform. They carry weight. Faithfulness is the act of remembering that promise every single day, whether you’re building a castle or cleaning up the rubble after it’s fallen.

And yes, there are dark days. The sort of days when bitterness creeps in like fog, when wounds fester and words do more harm than silence. The Church, in her wisdom, allows for separation at times—not to annul the vow, but to guard the dignity of both husband and wife. It’s a circuit breaker, not a farewell.

But the deepest strength doesn’t come from sheer will—it comes through prayer. Real prayer. Not something showy or dramatic. Just a quiet, honest conversation with the One who saw both of you on your wedding day and still walks with you now. Prayer steadies the sword hand. Clears the path. Reminds you that you’re not alone in the battle.

And then, resurrection becomes possible. Not as a metaphor, but as a reality. Because our God is not limited. He brings life from death, hope from despair, and healing from even the most broken places. That’s not fantasy—it’s the heart of the Christian life.

Faithfulness isn’t flashy. It’s rarely glorious. But it’s the core of any real epic. The moment when the hero stays. When she chooses to return. When he lifts up the broken vow and says, “I still mean it.”

That’s love worth writing about. That’s faithfulness. And in the end, that’s what makes the story great.

Fertility, young Garion, isn’t just a matter of biology. It’s not something you poke at in a laboratory or silence with clever little pills. It’s part of the great pattern—woven right into the world by the Creator Himself. It’s like the Orb: brilliant, volatile, and meant to be wielded with reverence.

Now, listen. In the same way a sword was never meant to peel fruit, the body wasn’t designed to betray its own rhythms. Contraception, for all its talk of progress, turns the miracle of fruitfulness into something to be “managed,” as if it were a broken mechanism. The ancients might’ve called that Promethean—man reaching above his station to seize the fire meant for gods. I’d just call it folly.

When Belgarath grumbles about the arrogance of kings who think they can rewrite the stars, he might as well be talking about this: the belief that we can override the design of the body without consequence. Contraception treats fertility like a glitch in the system. Worse, like a disease to be cured. But the Church, in her maddening, motherly wisdom, teaches something different. Fertility is a gift. Not always easy. Rarely convenient. But good—fundamentally good.

Children, of course, are the most obvious fruit of that gift. Yes, they cry and drool and break things, but they also laugh, love, and reflect the glory of the One who made them. Like silk from Sendaria, they are not things to be manufactured or avoided like an awkward dinner guest. They are, in the truest sense, blessings.

Now, don’t mistake this for recklessness. There’s nothing wrong with spacing births—so long as it’s done with the grain of the design, not against it. That’s where Natural Family Planning comes in: a kind of cooperation between husband and wife, and between both of them and God. Not trickery. Not suppression. Just a quiet, stubborn faith that love doesn’t need shortcuts to be fruitful.

Think of it this way: you wouldn’t smash a lute because its song is too honest. And you wouldn’t hand back a Christmas gift with a sneer and say, “I’d have preferred something useful.” That’d be poor manners. And frankly, a little tragic.

Fertility is one of those divine ironies—it humbles even the proudest warrior and elevates the meek. It’s not ours to manipulate like a plot twist. It’s ours to honour.

And if you’re wise, you’ll thank the Giver, not second-guess the gift.

You don’t just stumble into marriage the way you’d stumble into an inn on a rainy night, dripping wet and looking for soup. You know you’re in it for the long haul before you cross the threshold. That’s the thing about this sacrament—it’s a commitment as deliberate as drawing steel in a fight you can’t walk away from. And it’s not just to the person across the table. It’s to Christ Himself.

A marriage built on friendship with Christ has an odd sort of sturdiness. When you’ve learned to listen to Him—and more importantly, let Him teach you how to love—you’re not just fumbling through, hoping for the best. You’re learning how to love your best friend excellently, even when the day’s been hard, the bills are late, and the fight-or-flight urge is telling you to take a long walk and keep going. Somewhere in that steady choosing, there’s a mystery—why it works better when you lean on Him instead of yourself—but it does.

In every good story, there’s a weaker moment—one of you limps, the other shoulders the weight. That’s solidarity. Not the shiny word they throw around in speeches, but the quiet habit of standing your ground beside someone who’s hurting. Sometimes your spouse will be the strong one, sometimes you will. The trick is not keeping score. Christ never does.

Children change the game, and anyone who says otherwise hasn’t been paying attention. They’re the ones watching how you treat each other when no one else sees. They notice when you put down the newspaper to listen, when you make sacrifices without moaning about it. They’ll learn what love looks like by watching you, which is both terrifying and strangely comforting—because with God in the mix, you’re never raising them alone.

Marriage is still your choice, every single day. Free will means you can walk away, but the vow means you don’t. You keep choosing each other, again and again, not because it’s easy, but because you promised—and because there’s a mystery in it. Two people bound together, yet still themselves, somehow mirroring the love of the Holy Trinity in ways you’ll never fully figure out this side of heaven. A family is meant to be that—an icon of life and love, not perfect, but pointed toward home.

And yes, there will be storms. Some days you’ll feel like your marriage is clinging to the rocks in a squall. But the same Christ who called you into this covenant is the One in the boat with you, calm as you bail water, steady as you row. And if you stick with Him—stick with each other—you’ll find the shore.