The Case of the Gospel and the Murder of the Chocolate Lips

— by Dr. Michael A. Graham

The Case of the Gospel and the Murder of the Chocolate Lips

Valentine’s Day has always been a disaster for me. Some men may relate, but I promise you—I’ve taken bad gift-giving to a whole new level. My wife, Vicki, on the other hand, is a Hall of Fame gift-giver. She doesn’t just give gifts—she crafts meaningful, thoughtful expressions of love. It’s a spiritual gift, really.

For example, this past Christmas, she painted my favorite childhood boat, the Silver King III, as a surprise gift—despite the fact that we had agreed not to exchange presents. Because for her, it’s never about the transaction. It’s about love.

And then there’s me. A man who has spent his entire marriage dreading February 14th.

A Self-Centered Approach to Gift-Giving

To understand what happened, you have to know that I grew up in a fishing village, in a family that ran a seafood business. We celebrated Christmas and Thanksgiving, but Valentine’s Day? That wasn’t on the radar. My only real memory of it was the little cards we exchanged at school—nothing personal, just something you had to do.

So when I got married, I brought that same attitude with me. Meanwhile, Vicki came from a family of educators—people who appreciated thoughtfulness, tradition, and the kind of intentionality that makes people feel seen and valued.

You can see where this is going.

Every year, Valentine’s Day loomed over me like an exam I hadn’t studied for. And every year, I barely scraped by with a passing grade. I knew gift-giving was important to Vicki, but instead of seeing it as an opportunity to love her well, I saw it as a test of my worth as a husband. A test I was sure I’d fail.

But this particular year—about seven or eight years into our marriage—I had a plan.

The Perfect Gift (Or So I Thought)

One day in January, I was sitting in my real estate office when a friend of one of my agents walked in selling handcrafted brooches. (Vicki later informed me that they were not brooches, but cheap pins.)

One of them was shaped like an angel. Handmade. Unique. Personal. I thought to myself, This is it. This proves I didn’t wait until the last minute. Vicki will love it.

Feeling proud of my foresight, I bought it and stashed it away in my desk drawer.

Valentine’s Day was handled.

A few weeks later, the night before the big day, I stopped at the grocery store and thought, Why not add something extra? That’s when I spotted them—the chocolate lips. Big, red, foil-wrapped, utterly ridiculous chocolate lips.

Perfect.

To complete my masterful plan, I picked out a funny card—one with a jackass on the front, mocking my own history of bad gift-giving. (False humility. I actually thought I had nailed it this time.)

The next morning, I proudly handed my gifts to Vicki, fully expecting this to be the year I redeemed myself.

The Moment of Truth

Vicki opened the bag.

She looked at the angel pin. She looked at the chocolate lips. She looked at me.

And in that moment, I realized… I had failed. Again.

She wasn’t angry. She was just deflated. Disappointed. And because I was proud and self-centered, I couldn’t handle it.

A godly husband would have seen her disappointment, taken her hand, and said, I’m so sorry. I want to do better. Teach me how to love you well.

But I wasn’t a godly husband in that moment. I was a man with a bad heart, living with a bad record, ruled by a bad master—my own ego.

And instead of apologizing, I lashed out.

“All this great gift-giving you do,” I said, “isn’t really for others. You’re just giving gifts to yourself so you can be seen giving great gifts.”

The Murder of the Chocolate Lips

Now, Vicki will tell you that there was some truth in what I said. But she did not deserve to hear it from her husband—especially not in that moment.

But that’s what self-centeredness does. It blinds us to our own sin while making us hyper-aware of everyone else’s. It turns us into accusers. And we all know who the accuser of the brethren is. I was doing Satan’s work for him—tearing down my wife to justify myself.

Vicki, now crushed, started weeping. And then, through her tears, she said something like:

“I will show you exactly how you make me feel.”

She grabbed the chocolate lips.

She marched downstairs to the kitchen.

She opened a drawer and pulled out… the meat tenderizing hammer.

She looked at me, lifted the hammer, and annihilated the chocolate lips.

She murdered them.

There was no way to gather the pieces for a funeral.

The Gospel We Desperately Need

In the years since, we’ve learned to laugh about this. But at the time, it was no laughing matter.

And here’s what I see now that I couldn’t see then: My failure wasn’t that I bought a cheap pin and a ridiculous piece of chocolate. My failure was that I was giving out of my own emptiness.

Jesus said, “I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me shall not hunger, and whoever believes in me shall never thirst.” (John 6:35)

I was trying to love Vicki without first being filled with Christ. And that never works.

We like to think of Valentine’s Day as a time to give love, but before we do, we need to receive love—the love of the Father, who has given us as gifts to His Son. Jesus doesn’t just give us love—He treasures us as gifts entrusted to Him by the Father, and He promises, “I will never lose one of them.” (John 6:39)

That changes everything.

Because if my life is hidden in Christ, I don’t have to protect my ego. I don’t have to justify myself when I fail. I don’t have to perform to earn love, because I already have it—fully and eternally.

And that means I can give love. Not out of pressure, or performance, or fear of failure. But out of abundance. Out of Christ in me.

An Invitation to Receive Before You Give

So before you give a gift this Valentine’s Day, stop.

Pause long enough to see your own heart. If you, like me, have ever given out of pride, self-protection, or fear—go back to the One who gave Himself for you.

Because only when we receive His love can we truly give it.

And this Valentine’s Day, I’m taking another shot at it.

Pray for me.

And check back later to see if any chocolate survived.