How Long Did Meagan Good And DeVon Franklin Date Before Marriage?

Yes, DeVon Franklin is indeed an ordained minister, though he doesn’t typically carry the formal title of “pastor” like you’d find at a local church. He began preaching at just 15, and over the years has become a prominent Christian speaker—regularly sharing sermons and spiritual guidance. While his main career revolves around producing films and writing, faith remains central to his work, and being a minister is a key part of his identity.

Absolutely—DeVon Franklin was raised in the Seventh-day Adventist church and remains firmly rooted in that faith. He’s an ordained Adventist minister who faithfully observes the Sabbath from Friday sunset to Saturday sunset, even while managing a high-profile Hollywood career. For him, his religious commitment isn’t just a personal choice—it’s a guiding principle that shapes both his life and his work.

Some nights my partner and I collapse on the couch after a chaotic day and the little ritual of making tea together feels like a tiny marriage lifeline. It sounds simple, but those micro-habits—saying good morning, sharing a five-minute check-in, or deliberately touching hands in the supermarket aisle—are bricks that build a long-lasting home. I've found rituals that fit our weird schedules keep us connected even when life gets noisy. Conflict is part of the package, and over time I learned that how you fight matters more than whether you fight. We try to use short 'time-outs' instead of letting things escalate, name the emotion (not the blame), and aim for repair attempts—an apology, a plan, a hug. If you treat each fight like a problem to solve together rather than a verdict on the relationship, it changes everything. Also important: keep growing separately and together. We have hobbies that are purely ours and a few shared goals—saving for a trip, learning a language, or reading the same book (we once worked through 'The Seven Principles for Making Marriage Work' and it sparked some useful conversations). Practical stuff—money transparency, agreed boundaries with family, and being explicit about expectations—keeps friction low. In short: tiny daily care, graceful repair, and shared direction. That combo has kept us sane and oddly romantic in the long run.

I remember watching 'Marriage Story' and being completely absorbed by its raw emotional depth. The film runs for about 2 hours and 16 minutes, but it feels like a lifetime of emotions packed into every scene. Noah Baumbach did an incredible job capturing the complexities of a crumbling marriage, and the performances by Scarlett Johansson and Adam Driver are nothing short of breathtaking. The runtime perfectly balances the slow burn of their relationship's dissolution with moments of intense confrontation and quiet reflection. What really struck me was how the film uses its length to build layers of character development. You see the love, the resentment, and the painful acceptance unfold in a way that feels painfully real. The courtroom scenes, the arguments, and even the small, intimate moments all contribute to a narrative that doesn’t overstay its welcome. It’s a masterclass in storytelling that justifies every minute of its runtime.

I've always been drawn to psychological thrillers, and 'A Good Marriage' by Stephen King is a standout. The story revolves around Darcy Anderson, a seemingly happy wife who discovers a horrifying secret about her husband of decades. It’s a chilling exploration of how well we truly know the people we love. The narrative digs deep into Darcy’s shock and moral dilemma when she finds evidence linking her husband to unspeakable crimes. King masterfully blends domestic drama with suspense, making you question the facade of normalcy. The climax is gut-wrenching, leaving you haunted by the idea of trust and the darkness lurking beneath ordinary lives.

As someone who deeply appreciates nuanced storytelling, 'Marriage Story' resonates because it doesn’t shy away from the messy, painful reality of relationships. The film’s strength lies in its raw honesty—it captures the emotional rollercoaster of divorce without villainizing either character. Noah Baumbach’s writing feels like eavesdropping on real-life conversations, and the performances by Scarlett Johansson and Adam Driver are breathtakingly authentic. What makes it stand out is its balance. It’s heartbreaking yet darkly funny, intimate yet universal. The scene where Charlie and Nicole argue in the apartment is a masterclass in tension, showing how love can curdle into resentment in seconds. The soundtrack by Randy Newman adds a layer of melancholy that lingers long after the credits roll. It’s not just a 'divorce movie'—it’s a poignant exploration of how two people can simultaneously care for each other and fail to stay together.

There are nights when my partner and I will pick a film not to escape but to feel seen, and the ones that do that best tend to treat marriage like breathing: ordinary, occasionally messy, sometimes miraculous. 'Before Midnight' sits at the top of my list because it shows how love ages alongside fatigue and parenting duties. What I loved most was how the movie lets arguments breathe; they don’t land like melodrama but like two exhausted people trying to be honest. Watching it on a rainy Sunday with coffee felt less like entertainment and more like instruction manual fragments for staying human with someone. Another film I keep recommending is 'Away from Her' — it’s quiet, devastating, and utterly respectful of the small loyalties that hold marriages together when everything else frays. For older couples, 'On Golden Pond' captures a lifetime of compromises and shared jokes, while 'The Kids Are All Right' nails parental teamwork mixed with modern complications. If you want an unromanticized deep dive into intimacy and failure, 'Scenes from a Marriage' (yes, Bergman’s brutal masterpiece) is essential. These films don’t sugarcoat; they show repair, patience, and the daily decisions that actually make something good last, and sometimes I feel relieved, like someone finally put the hard parts onscreen.

My partner and I come from wildly different upbringings, and it’s been an ongoing, sometimes messy, education in empathy. Early on, small things tripped us up: I thought silence meant sulking; they thought it meant respect. My weekend brunch habit felt disrespectful next to their deep family dinners where everyone shows up on time. Those microclashes pile up into bigger fights unless you talk them through. Over time I learned to translate feelings behind customs instead of just reacting to the behavior. What really surprised me was how in-laws and extended family expectations can reshape a marriage overnight. My tendency to keep finances private ran headlong into their norm of family-led decisions. Negotiating boundaries took patience and a few awkward family meetings, but establishing a united front and scripts for difficult conversations helped a lot. We started planning holidays together—rotating traditions, blending recipes, sometimes making a brand-new ritual of our own. That felt like building a tiny culture that belonged to just us. If I had to give one tip: be painfully explicit early on. Talk about money, kids, religion, food rules, and how you celebrate grief. Name the values underneath each custom rather than assuming they’re obvious. It doesn’t erase differences, but it turns surprises into choices, and I’d take that choice every time.