If You’re Wondering Whether to Try Lutheran Matchmaking, Here’s Our Story

Written by Mr. Mattias Gugel

Molly and I got married at the end of 2025, about a year and a half after Faith and Emily from LCMS Connections took a chance and matched us. That year? It was mostly spent in the long-distance trenches: FaceTime marathons, crossing state lines for a first date, and more road trips and airport drop-offs than I’d care to count.

Now, a month into marriage, we catch each other in the kitchen or on the couch and ask, almost daily, Wait, is this actually our life?

Faith and Emily asked us to share a bit of what we learned along the way. Spoiler: there’s no secret code, it wasn’t all smooth sailing, and we’re not guaranteeing you’ll find your husband or wife. But if you’re staring down the same question we once did—Should I even try this?—maybe our story will give you something real to hang onto. 

Our story isn’t about ease, but about the effort, patience, and vulnerability it required. 

If you’re considering matchmaking, here’s what I’d say: real connection starts when you stop micromanaging every detail, put in the work, and trust the process more than your own checklist.

The Checklist Problem

If you’ve dated in the last decade, you know exactly what I mean.

You open an app, swipe, adjust the filters, and tell yourself you’re being intentional. Or maybe you’re so anti-app you’re just hoping God will drop someone into your lap, full Nora Ephron meet-cute, minus the soundtrack and the witty banter.

Either way, we’re encouraged to make a mental checklist of what we want. For many women, that may mean a guy who’s tall, fit, successful, emotionally available, and from a good family. For guys, the fantasy may be the effortlessly beautiful woman who’s kind, shares our hobbies, low-drama, ambitious but not intimidating, warm but not boring, and somehow still out there, waiting for you to show up.

People like that exist, but not in the numbers you may think.

While we were engaged, Molly and I watched The Materialists, a movie about a professional matchmaker in a secular world. One of the smartest things it shows is how absurd the whole process gets when you keep adding requirements. It’s not that people want bad things; it's that when the list keeps growing, the pool keeps shrinking.

Now add what actually matters to your checklist: shared Christian faith. Add a Lutheran view of marriage, family, gender, sex, and church life. Suddenly, you’re not just looking for a needle in a haystack. You’re looking for a needle in a haystack who also knows the Small Catechism.

Not exactly playing the numbers game well.

And for Molly and me, finding a fellow Lutheran wasn’t just a label. It meant we weren’t negotiating the basics. Christ mattered. Church mattered. A church wedding mattered. Being in the Word and in prayer together mattered. Forgiveness mattered. And we both wanted the same kind of home: imperfect people under grace, building a life pointed in the same direction.

Proverbs says, “The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps.” Our human planning is natural, but it can quietly turn into control and then paralysis.

How This Actually Started

When I first found LCMS Connections, it wasn’t some slick website with endless profiles to scroll through. It was basically a Google Form. Reflective questions. Big-picture stuff. Faith, family, how you actually picture your life playing out.

I filled out the form, hit send, and then immediately followed up with an email that was basically, So, who exactly are you people? Skeptical is putting it mildly.

What I didn’t expect was a real conversation.

Faith and Emily introduced themselves, explained their approach to matchmaking, and asked to talk on Skype so they could get to know me beyond just my answers. That made a difference. There were real people on the other end, taking responsibility and actually caring about the people involved. They encouraged openness, made it feel normal to be vulnerable when putting yourself out there, and offered help along the way.

“So What Exactly Is This?”

I wasn’t new to dating. I’d tried the apps. All of them. I knew how to pick photos and how to sound just charming enough in a bio to get a second look.

But where I lived, the apps didn’t have many women who shared a Christian worldview, let alone a devout Lutheran one. Most dates felt like job interviews: high stakes, little to stand on, and both people calculating whether to continue or politely exit. 

When Molly and I started talking, there wasn’t some magical moment where everything just clicked, especially not over FaceTime. Mostly, it was a lot of, So, what exactly is this?

Looking back, discernment wasn’t some mystical “sign.” It was simpler: Were there any clear dealbreakers? Did the conversation have ease? Did we keep wanting to talk again? And maybe most importantly, were we both willing to take the next faithful step instead of demanding certainty up front?

We were long-distance, so the “What is this?” question came up early and often. It’s not the kind of thing you can ignore when you’re investing a lot of time and trying to let walls down to be vulnerable and open.

About a month in, I wanted to meet in person. Molly was finishing the school year, which is always a busy season for a kindergarten teacher, and told me it wasn’t a good time. I’ll be honest: I had no idea what to make of that. Was she being literal? Letting me down easy? Was I supposed to read between the lines?

We kept going anyway. And yes, she really did just mean it was a busy time. No hidden message. No girl code. 

What mattered more than instant chemistry was being willing to move through awkward moments together and giving some time to let life happen. We kept talking, kept showing up, eventually planned a visit, and kept asking the small, honest question: Is this worth the effort today? 

Over time, things became clear. Not all at once, but gradually. Conversation got easier. There were no big “absolutely not” moments. Love didn’t show up in a flash. It grew because we let God have the space to work on us.

Putting in the Effort and Closing the Distance

Once we realized this was something worth actually pursuing, we started putting in the work. 

We did long-distance for just over a year. Even from the beginning, we both knew: if this was going to last, it couldn’t just be a relationship lived out on screens. At some point, you need to share a zip code, not just a time zone.

Here’s the honest part: when Faith and Emily first asked if I’d even consider long distance, I checked no. Not because I thought it was doomed, but because I know myself. I’ve always believed you can’t really build a life together unless you’re actually in the same place—sharing groceries, not just playlists.

We were blessed—God handed us jobs that made it possible. I worked remotely, which meant I could camp out in Wichita for weeks at a time, thanks to Molly’s pastor and principal, who both let me stay at their houses. Molly, being a teacher, had summers and school breaks to make the trek to Madison. We lived out of suitcases, missed birthdays and family dinners, and kept showing up anyway.

We didn’t keep things under wraps either. We met each other’s families, visited each other’s churches, and did real life together—trivia nights, friends’ weddings, baby showers, small group Bible study, and sitting shoulder to shoulder in the same pew. We let the people who loved us see what was actually taking shape.

When we were apart, we found a rhythm instead of trying to fill every silence. Three times a week, we’d do a short devotion together. It gave us a steady place to meet, rooted in faith, without crowding out the rest of life.

As things got more serious, we started having the real conversations—the ones about what it would actually take to live in the same place. For us, that meant I’d be the one to move. We got engaged in March, I packed up and moved in June, and we got married in December. Those seven months, finally living in the same city but in different houses, dating the old-fashioned way, slowly becoming ‘us’ in our church and community, turned out to be one of the best parts of our story yet.

I won’t pretend any of this was easy. Letting go of a city you love, a life that mostly works, and the future you thought you’d have is its own kind of grief. The ten-hour drive between Madison and Wichita was long, but somehow, it always stretched out even further when I was leaving her than when I was arriving.

Somewhere along the way, that became the answer. To borrow from When Harry Met Sally, when you meet the person you want to spend your life with, you don’t want to keep leaving them. You want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.

Closing the distance took effort in the most literal sense. It cost us. It took trust, timing, and a sacrifice to give up more of myself than I’d planned—a lesson I’m realizing is just the start of being a husband. But I’m convinced now: actually trying, really trying to bring your lives together once you know where things are headed, is worth it. That effort didn’t wear us down. It made us clearer.

None of this played out like a movie montage, even if we had our share of romantic moments. Most of it was practical, sometimes exhausting, rarely glamorous, and absolutely necessary.

A Word of Encouragement

One thing I hope our story does is encourage people, not pressure them, not rush them, just remind them they’re not alone in this.

If you’re reading this because you’re curious about LCMS Connections, let me talk to you directly. First, it’s normal to feel hesitant. Filling out a form, letting someone else read what you wrote, and opening yourself up to a match you didn’t hand-pick is humbling, and to be encouraged to keep it going for two whole weeks can be rough. You’re not wrong to feel that way. Most of us would rather keep control, even if control hasn’t actually been working.

But here’s what I wish someone had told me sooner: you don’t need to be fearless to start. You just need to be willing. Willing to be honest instead of impressive. Willing to be seen instead of filtered. Willing to give someone a real chance instead of demanding instant certainty. Willing to take one faithful step, and then the next. That’s it.

Next, loosen the checklist. Focus on faith, character, and direction. Be willing to let someone else see you clearly and help you take a step you might not take on your own. Sometimes, that’s what it takes.

And if you’re tired—tired of swiping, tired of shallow conversations, tired of feeling like you’re constantly auditioning—this is different. It’s not easier, but it’s saner. It’s more human. There are real people on the other end who care enough to ask real questions, offer real guidance, and encourage you to follow through with integrity.

You might get a match that isn’t “the one.” That’s OK. You might learn what you value. You might learn what you need. You might learn how to show up better. And if the call of marriage is on your heart, those aren’t side quests. That’s the real work.

So yes, try it. Even if it feels weird.

Not with a guarantee. Not with a demand that it has to work immediately. But with the posture of prayer: Lord, make me faithful in the next step, and give me the courage to show up.

Because that effort, offered in good faith, matters.

Why It’s Worth It

There’s a Bible verse in Jeremiah that gets quoted a lot: “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord.” I understand why people sometimes roll their eyes at it, especially in dating conversations. It’s been used so often it can start to feel hollow.

But the truth underneath it is still real. God’s plans are deeper and often better than what we would have picked from our own checklists.

When Molly and I ask, “Is this real life?” it's almost never about something big. It’s about the quiet things. Sharing a bed and praying together at night. Reading Scripture side by side. Eating meals at the same table instead of cooking them solo. Sipping a cup of coffee while doing a crossword puzzle together. Merging two homes, two histories, two families, and two sets of habits into one life.

For a long time, both of us wondered if marriage would actually happen. We thought singleness might be God's calling for us. And then, through effort, a lot of discomfort, and more prayers than we can count, here we are. Still surprised.

Marriage isn’t a constant rush of feeling. It’s security. It’s honesty. It’s not auditioning anymore. It’s knowing the person next to you is staying put. That’s the difference.

All of this was worth it because we are better together than we ever were apart. We’re steadied where one of us is urgent, strengthened where the other is gentle, and learning daily how to love more faithfully. 

That’s why trying is worth it.

Not because it’s easy.

Not because it’s guaranteed.

But because sometimes, when you’re willing to take the next faithful step, you wake up one day — next to your wife — and look around at your ordinary life, and realize it’s become something extraordinary you never could have planned, but God did.

P.S. A Note to Church Families, Pastors, and Friends

If you’re not single but know a few people in your church who are, consider this your gentle nudge.

Most congregations have those faithful, steady members everyone quietly roots for. They serve. They show up. They love Christ and His Church. They’re building good lives. They’re even, dare I say it, normal. They just don’t have the right person sitting next to them in the pew.

Support doesn’t have to be awkward or overbearing. And please don’t be overbearing. Sometimes it’s as simple as saying to your friend who is searching for their spouse, “Hey, I heard about LCMS Connections. I know a couple for whom it worked. You might consider reaching out.” Sometimes it’s offering to pray. Sometimes it’s being the kind of community that treats the desire for marriage as something worth caring about—not a private burden to be carried alone.

And if you’re a pastor, you know your people. You know the ones the whole congregation loves. Imagine what happens if even a few more faithful singles join the pool—if we widen the circle by a few more congregations and districts. That alone can make the “long-distance” part of our story a little less necessary for someone else in the future.

Molly and I are so grateful we found LCMS Connections. We’re grateful Faith and Emily built something like this. And we’d love to see more faithful people get the same kind of encouragement.