Archive for December 24th, 2008
I was standing in front of about eighty people, though I was not facing them, and I was wearing a rented suit, black, with white shirt and teal tie, and I was almost the guest of honor.
The real guest of honor would come walking up the aisle any second.
To my right, on either side of a fieldstone wall, were high windows, floor to ceiling, overlooking a patch of woods still bearing some of its autumn glory.
To my left were two families waiting to be joined together.
The pianist played beautifully but subtly, letting the moment happen without interfering.
I tried to remember that breathing slowly and evenly reduced the chance of fainting. I tried to remember to avoid the deer-in-headlights expression that I could feel just beneath the surface. I tried not to remember that the wedding I was attending was mine.
Ours.
The pianist paused, the church fell silent, and then, with the first few notes of Vivaldi’s “La primavera” just beginning to ascend to the high ceiling, she appeared.
I forgot how to breathe. My heart forgot how to beat… I could feel it stop, hesitate, shiver with excitement, and finally — just in time — step back into its now-hastened rhythm.
I don’t know whether my gasp was audible. I do know that to feel air swelling my lungs, to feel my heart pounding in my chest, and to see my bride proceeding up the aisle were the sweetest yet most terrifying sensations I have ever experienced.
She was perfect.
I nearly had tears spilling from my eyes even before she came close enough to see them. When she stood not-quite-arm’s-length in front of me and I repeated my vows, I could barely see her. How I kept raw emotion from spilling down my cheeks, I’ll never know. And when her voice broke during her vows, there was barely a dry cheek in the building, although we — still — managed to contain our own tears, somehow.
We did cry, later.
(She is still perfect.)
Nevertheless let every one of you in particular so love his wife even as himself… — Ephesians 5:33



