The Intricate Beauty of Wedding Day Stories
Every wedding is a lacework of stories.
The threads are long and delicate, having survived the hopes and disappointments of previous romances, the fierce friendships of youth, the familial realizations of adolescence, the giddy playmates of childhood, the dependent clasping of infancy. But they don't stop at birth; every wedding extends far back in time, to relatives known and unknown, whose choices—visiting a particular matchmaker, moving to a new part of the world, taking up a certain line of work—set the course of the bride and groom's lives. Every wedding, too, encompasses the dreams and disillusionments of the guests who come to the day hoping the happiness they've found, or for which they're still searching, has come to the couple before them.
All these stories come together on a wedding day, and even though no one in the room knows all of them, we see the interweaving occur in front of our eyes, making something beautiful that has never existed before—and, if all goes according to plan, that will never fray or fade.
This is what I thought last week, when I was the matron of honor at my older sister's wedding.
I didn't think it on the plane ride from Delaware to Phoenix. My husband Hal and I were caught up in the logistics of seating assignments and arrival times, the pleasures of a layover in my favorite airport, the discomforts of turbulence (for me) and a migraine (for him). Nor did I think it in the two days we had before the wedding, when, having recovered from the flight, we took walks through the sunny valley, trying to remember the names of the plant life we were passing, wondering what words the locals use to describe the brown mountains.
I only began to think about it at the dinner for a dozen friends and family, held the evening before the wedding, when the conversation turned to what advice, if any, each couple at the table would give the almost-newlyweds.
"Forgiveness is important," one couple said, giving each other knowing glances.
"Remembering that the goal of any argument is win-win, not lose-win," added someone else.
"Having the ability to laugh at yourself," said another.
I looked around the table, and understood that we were hearing conclusions reached after long, complicated stories, just like what happened with Hal and me. Then one person recalled how hard the early years of their marriage had been, after their two spools of stories netted together, and they discovered many glitches and snags.
Hal and I discovered the same thing when we laced our lives together. But in our history, that was before we took our vows, in the thirteen years (yes, you read that right) when we lived together. In fact, our imperfect union led us to break up, and only after six years had passed—six years when we each went through many changes—did we come back together and get married. Talk about a lacework of stories when we stood before the justice of the peace!
Our path to marriage was unique, though what couple's isn't? Certainly not the people sitting around me at the table. Certainly not my sister and her fiancé.
But none of this really hit me until the ceremony itself.
It was to be a modest gathering, held on the covered terrace of an Italian restaurant, with forty guests. Perhaps because the bride was fifty-two and the groom sixty-one, or perhaps because they prize their network of friends more than ostentation, the flowers, photography, and cake were to be handled by people they've laughed, cried, and yardsaled with for years. Hal was given the task of pressing the buttons on the iPod. An acquaintance from my sister's spiritual group would be administering the vows.
A few hours before the big moment, we met for a rehearsal. Then the bridal party of four drove back to the hotel and got ready.
The bride's dress, which was sleek, sleeveless, and violet, had been purchased at Ross Dress for Less. The dress for the matron of honor (me), a loose emerald silk two-piece, was sewn by our stepmother. The other two women in the bridal party—the groom's grown daughter and six-year-old granddaughter—wore blue and purple, respectively, their dresses from Victoria's Secret and JC Penney.
My sister produced a box with a bouquet for her and me. She placed a wreath of lavender flowers on the granddaughter's head.
Then we drove back to the restaurant, and parked, as planned, in the back. After two days of wind and cool temperatures, the evening was breezeless and warm. We lined up, hidden behind a corner, the sun not yet set, the guests taking their places on the terrace.
Hal pressed the first song on the iPod. The groom's favorite musical group is the Carpenters, so the first song was one of theirs, "I Just Fall In Love Again." As the bridal party stood waiting for our cue, the second song, I imagined the groom and his best man doing the same, on the opposite side of the terrace. In the spirit of colorful frivolity, they both wore purple shirts. The groom also wore a tie chain with the icon of his engineering honor society. An engineer by education, he's now a defense systems analyst. He was trim and fit in his suit, and his dark hair was neat as always.
Then Hal began the second song. This was by the bride's favorite group, the Beatles, a preference I happen to share, and as "In My Life" drifted softly over the terrace, I poked my head out of hiding.
There was the woman performing the ceremony, taking her place in the designated alcove on the terrace.
Then came the groom, smiling right at me, walking with his best man.
Then came me, walking toward them, bouquet in hand, cameras flashing beyond the corner of my eye.
And then my almost-brother-in-law's face lit up. I turned around, and there was my sister, looking more beautiful than I'd ever seen her.
Accompanied by the groom's daughter and granddaughter, she came to the alcove. The three of us stepped aside. The best man stepped aside. The song came to its end.
And then, after a brief preliminary by the woman running the nuptials, my sister and her almost-husband produced sheets of paper on which they'd written their own vows.
I'd of course known many of my sister's life threads, but that's when I remember some of his. His first marriage, which hadn't gone well, resulted in the daughter beside me. His second marriage, filled with love and respect, ended tragically, when his forty-four-year-old wife died suddenly of a stroke. He then grieved. He tried to date but nothing clicked. He moved to Phoenix to be closer to his newly married daughter and her future children. He settled in, buying a nice house, working at a job that suited his talents.
Then one day after eight years had passed, dearly wanting to talk to his wife once more, he contacted a psychic he'd seen portrayed on television, Allison DuBois. They set up a phone call, then talked for a long time. Most importantly, she impressed upon him that his wife wanted him to have the courage to move on with his life and to be happy again. His wife wanted him to find somebody new. The call left him ready to embrace the next chapter of his life.
Only a month later, my sister paid a regular visit to her financial advisor, a woman, assisted by her daughter, who she'd seen for years. My sister had begun working with the advisor after her divorce from her first husband. She'd told the advisor stories of the men she'd seen since: nice men lacking in ambition, including, for the most part, careers.
After the session ended and my sister left the office, the financial advisor started to think about another client, a defense systems analyst, who was scheduled to come in the following week. She went into see her daughter. "I think these two clients would enjoy each other's company," the advisor said. "What do you think?" The daughter immediately said, "I think so, too."
So the financial advisor played matchmaker.
And my sister met the good man she'd been wanting so long.
And the defense systems analyst met the partner he'd been craving.
And romance enveloped their lives.
The vows complete, my sister and her groom turned to the guests. I turned too, and saw forty smiling faces, forty clapping pairs of hands, forty sets of stories. I watched everyone, and thought of all the histories I knew, and the many I didn't, and how each of us hoped for this couple to have the best of all we'd ever had, and none of the worst.
Then I saw Hal rising from the iPod with tears in his eyes. Our gazes locked, and the moment froze with it. All of us together, in our messy jumble of losses and dreams, pasts and presents, lessons mastered and lessons just begun. Witnessing love's needle stitching order into our lives. The glitches might come, the snags might appear. But maybe not. Maybe everything will stay just as it was right then: a beautiful mesh, a perfect design, a delicate lace that's impervious and strong because at last these lives are woven together.
Me in the McNamara Tunnel of the Detroit Airport
Hal in the McNamara Tunnel
Hal goofing around at Taleisin West, Frank Lloyd Wright's winter home in Scottsdale, AZ
Me in Taleisin West at cabaret designed by Frank Lloyd Wright
My sister and me the day of her wedding
My sister and almost-husband, the night before wedding
My sister and her husband, right after their wedding ceremony
The wedding party: the three maids of honor, the bride and groom, the best man
Tags: Family, happiness, hope, love, marriage, relationships, sister, stories, wedding
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