Sometimes love doesn’t come with flowers, grand gestures, or a handwritten poem sealed with wax. (Though, let’s be honest — I wouldn’t turn any of those down.)
Sometimes love looks like an oil change. Or tires that magically get aired up. A full tank of gas. Going out of their way to help transport and unload a car full of party supplies for a party they aren’t even attending. And yes — even the trash bins rolled to the curb on schedule before the trash truck arrives.
And here’s the kicker: I can do all of these things. I’ve done them countless times. I’ve filled my own tank. I’ve changed my own wiper blades. I’ve MacGyvered a muffler with a coat hanger just to make it down the road. I’ve walked into the post office like I had it all together, even when I was mentally unraveling over 46 other things. I’m not helpless. I’m capable, resourceful, and wildly competent on most days.
But this week? I was tired. I was running on fumes — literally and emotionally. I reheated my coffee three times and forgot to drink it every single time. That kind of tired.
And right in the middle of that fog, John stepped in — not with fireworks, not with a grand monologue — but with quiet, practical love. He just did the things. The errands. The chores. The “I got this” list.
No announcements. No gold stars needed. Just a silent, solid “I see you. I’ve got you.”
It was the kind of love that doesn’t shout — it shows up.
And I’m realizing more and more how much marriage is built in those spaces. Not in the anniversaries or the vacations or the Instagram-worthy moments (though those are lovely, too), but in the Saturday morning oil changes. The Thursday morning sweep of crumpled food wrappers from the front seat, remnants of yesterday’s breakfast on the go. The errands that whisper, “I know you could do it — but you don’t have to this time.”
That’s what real partnership looks like. Not a 50/50 split. Not a tally of who’s done what. Because life doesn’t divide itself up evenly — and neither does love. Some weeks, one of us is running strong. Other weeks, one of us is barely hanging on by a thread.
And so we rotate.
We take turns being the strong one, the soft place, the errand-runner, the load-lifter. We trade off — sometimes without even talking about it — because that’s what love does. It notices. It adjusts. It shifts with grace instead of scorekeeping. It says, “I’ve got this for now — and I trust you’ll have me when it’s my turn.”
True partnership doesn’t flinch at the imbalance. It leans in. It says, “Let me carry more today.”
There’s something so holy — so sacred, really — about that kind of rhythm. Where love is less about swooping in to rescue, and more about stepping up without being asked. Not because it’s owed. But because it’s offered.
We don’t talk about that kind of love enough. We talk about sparks and butterflies and sweeping gestures. But we don’t always talk about the ordinary, everyday love — the kind that folds the laundry, feeds the dog, and waits in a really long line at the pharmacy because you forgot to pick up your refill and are out of really important meds.
That’s the love I want to keep growing into. The kind I want to keep choosing. The kind that sees, shows up, and doesn’t keep score.
So thanks, John. For the gas. For the dinner delivery. For lightening the load. For loving me in a way that’s steady, quiet, and completely extraordinary — even when it looks ordinary from the outside.
And also — thanks for not saying, “Did you even notice I did all that?” Because yes. I did. And it meant everything.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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