WAITING for THE BRIDE

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a Place of Winter for the Years of Winter… ©

I didn’t know why we were all waiting, but waiting for a bride is not unusual at a wedding. Forty-five minutes is much too long to wait, though, with 200 people sitting, looking at me, as though I should do something about it. So I did. I sent an emissary, the girl who turned the pages for the organist, who was getting mighty tired, to the bride room to see what was taking so long. She returned to explain, with a stutter she usually did not have.

It seems that just as she was to come down the stairs from the bride room, the bride had noticed a little tear in the end of her veil. Hardly noticeable, and the veil was not lace, just a net. So the bridal consultant had taken her scissors and trimmed it all the way around so that it was still even and the tear, which did not show anyway, no longer showed at all. But the bride threw a fit. The veil was too short. It was only ¼ inch shorter than it had been, and no one could possibly tell the difference, but it was not right! She insisted that the bridal consultant woman return to her shop and get a duplicate of the right length. That took 45 minutes.

And people used to wonder why I said I’d rather do ten funerals instead of one wedding! Something like that, fortunately not quite that extreme but still frustrating, happened at or before or after every wedding I performed, and I did a lot of weddings, which made for a lot of ruined Saturday afternoons, which I would rather have spent with my wife or children.

Occasionally, though, there would be a wedding where the bride and her people were not focused on the dress or the veil or the ceremony, which is a focus on self, but were focused on the love and commitment being celebrated. Those were joyful occasions, and I cherish their memory. Still, though, if you want me to officiate something for you, you have a better chance of getting me to do it if you die instead of get married.

John Robert McFarland

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula [The UP], where life is defined by winter even in the summer! [This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.]

I tweet as yooper1721.