Before the kids and the chaos of family life, Sara taught me one of life's most beautiful lessons at a Benihana-style restaurant called Nakato.
Picture it: twelve strangers around a table, watching their chef perform while secretly sizing each other up. You never knew who you'd end up sitting with - maybe a couple dressed for prom, a guy in a KISS t-shirt, or someone dining solo. By the time everyone arrived, you had your own little temporary community.
I was always the difficult one. "No butter, no oil," I'd tell the chef, who would segregate my broccoli to the corner of the grill like it had committed a vegetable crime. But while I was focused on my dry vegetables, Sara quietly orchestrated something magical.
Without telling me at first, she had started a tradition of paying for everyone's meal - the whole table - before we'd slip out early. Sometimes, people would chase us into the parking lot to thank us. Other times, we'd get thank-you notes from the maître d'. And occasionally, people would never know who had picked up their tab.
That's when I learned something profound about the woman I'd married: for Sara, the greatest joy wasn't in receiving but in giving something unexpected to others. For the price of a few meals, we could make twelve strangers' nights unforgettable.
These days, our date nights look different. We take turns surprising each other with new restaurants and adventures. But that spirit of giving that Sara started at Nakato? That's still at the heart of everything we do.
This Valentine's Day, I'm grateful for Sara's love and how she's taught me to love others. Sometimes, the quietest gifts leave the loudest impact.
