When we were dating, I would typically get off work earlier than my now-husband, Billy. My favorite running trail went past the church where he worked, so I’d park behind the church and chase that daily tread. I ran with particular enthusiasm during that season because I knew that if I “happened to mention” that I was going to run from, say, 3:00 to 4:00, Billy would take the hint and leave a cute note stuck to my car window.
It was pure joy as I finished that last quarter mile and glimpsed a sticky note flapping against my driver’s window. What romantic thing did he write today? What hilarious doodle might await?
It was a sweet season of life.
We’ve been together for four years now. We started dating in 2020 and were married less than a year later in 2021. Our love looks different now. We are still best friends—we were from our first meeting when we could not stop talking and finding similarities like the fact that we both enjoy discussing theology while distance running.
Now, we own a home that demands constant care. We have a cat we love dearly even though she is an absolute curmudgeon. We have jobs that require us to work most evenings. Billy is preparing to step into a lead pastor role and I am eagerly awaiting the publication of my first book.
We have a lot on our plates. Our lives are so different than when we were dating—when I still lived with my parents, Billy lived in a sparse apartment with a disproportionate number of couches, and our primary objective was to work hard at our jobs and enjoy time together.
We are now in that stage of life when our responsibilities will only ever increase.
But yesterday, as I was leaving for work, I experienced the same joy I used to feel upon seeing sticky notes on my car window. What caused this little thrill of happiness?
Our garage door opener. Sitting on my car.
With the sun setting an an unholy hour, severe wind warnings, and temperatures dipping below zero, I was so thankful to avoid having to get out of my car to open and close the garage. It’s a small gift, but it meant a lot to this constantly-freezing girl.
Now Billy has to get out of his toasty warm car to open and close the garage. Not me. Mwahaha.
But that’s love.
Any reader with common sense will probably respond, “You’ve lived in that house for over three years. Why not just get another garage door opener?” Fair point. But then what would I blog about? And how would we alternately tell each other, “I love you” in the way of practical, stubborn Midwesterners?
The garage door opener is becoming a tradition in the Molinari household: Leaving it for one another is a small but significant way of saying, “I love you and am willing to sacrifice my comfort for yours.” It’s a reminder that if we are willing to love one another in the small, ordinary things—like garage door openers—we will be willing to love one another through the big things, the scary things, the astonishing things.
In the beginning, love was leaving romantic notes. Later on, it became pragmatism and sacrifice (with occasional romantic notes).
Right now, love is a garage door opener and my heart is warm—much like my car.
Ryanne Molinari 