Strong coffee, mimosas, kringles (as
they call them in Wisconsin, stollens elsewhere) and bagels for
breakfast. Friends from various life stages surrounding us. Our
children and their friends with us. We started our day like that.
It got better.
Linda, Laura and her bridesmaids left
for the wedding site mid-morning. They needed to set up the
decorations, the games and a special table. The rest of us sat
on the deck watching two mamas with their train of a dozen ducklings
paddle by, the cloudless sky, each others' aging but still-beloved
faces. Nieces and nephews splashed in the lake. Cousins kidded each
other between extended gazes into their smart phones.
Mid-day brought the invitation to come
into my daughter's bedroom to view her in her dress. She stood in
front of the mirror. As I approached from behind her eyes sought me
out in the reflection. We smiled. I knew I should cry but I felt
deep happiness. She wore the emblem of pure, true love I had seen on
dozens of young women over my years as a pastor. This time it was my
own flesh and blood, the apple of my eye. The fact that her mother
had worn that same veil thirty-one years before added to the joy.
People came and went. An opening in the schedule popped up; I climbed into a
kayak and stroked the length of the lake. There, at the nature
preserve owned by a local tribe, sat this year's eagle nest in the
fork of a tall red pine. As I drifted close a female soared low over
the water, fishing. Two eaglets, now almost as large as their
parents, sat in the nest. They preened and posed. The mother came
back with a fish in her talons. She tore it with her beak and tossed
part to each of her brood. I paddled away, marveling at God's
creation.
The time came to suit up; I ironed my
shirt and donned charcoal pinstripes and black shoes. Linda came out
in her new dress. To her mother's dismay, her sister-in-law had
straightened her hair. I thought she looked like a million bucks.
Our daughter climbed into our car and we became her limo service to
the ceremony. We said we thought we should have profound things to
say to each other, but all we could think of was how happy we
were.
Most of the guests had assembled by the
time we arrived. Our little family of four gathered, our last time as a discrete unit, and had our picture
taken. Linda and Dan left together. Through the screened porch we
watched the ushers and groomsmen usher the older generation—including
our son walking his grandmother down the aisle. Suddenly the time
came to escort my daughter. All too soon we arrived at the front, I
shook Sam's hand, hugged and kissed her, joined their hands, and sat.
The hot sun beat down in the still air
as the minister spoke. Linda's father offered an original, heartfelt
poem. Dan read a scripture. Sam's sister played the flute. Linda
cried happy tears. Before we knew it Sam and Laura faced each other
and made their promises, exchanged their rings, kissed. Laura pulled
him down and made him kiss her again.
Pictures and more pictures. (Thank you, Carlsons.)
We finally went into the hall for a blessing, toasts, knives clinking
on glasses, and an excellent meal. The claustrophobia that hits me
in noisy, crowded places eventually drove me outside. I sat at the
back of wedding chairs beside that special work table, which my dad had built for his
garage. Laura wanted to use it for programs and bubbles. I ran a
hand over the rough boards, expertly joined. I finally cried, but
only a little. Not for the first time I thought, “Oh dad, why
couldn't you have been here?” But then I thought again that maybe
he was. I went back inside.
Cupcake time. Laura and Sam had them
in lieu of a big, fancy, ultimately uneaten wedding cake. He smeared
her chin a little; she got frosting from his chin to his cheeks. The
bride and the groom danced first, then came my turn. She chose
Stevie Wonder's You Are the Sunshine of My Life.
I used to sing it to her as she went to sleep. Then nobody danced
for the longest time. Finally, Frank Sinatra's recording of I
Got You Under My Skin played. Five couples from Northern Lakes Church had the floor to
ourselves. It was a wonderful, serendipitous moment—though we did
have to tell Bill Scott that he was supposed to dip Rene, not the
other way around.
Back
out on the lawn guests were playing Corn Hole and other camp games.
People began drifting away into the night. A deer tentatively
stepped onto the grass. We loaded games and plates into our
vehicles. Brother Matt helped mom into his van. Sam and Laura left
to applause. I settled the bar tab.
We
drove back to the compound. One by one we went to bed. My
brother-in-law Paul tried to teach my son and his friend Tim how to
play a video game that none of them fully understood. They laughed
like exhausted, happy, comfortable-with-each other guys. Finally
they all went to bed—except Dan. He came over and sat next to me.
He handed me a book and said, “I wanted to give this to you.
Granddaddy was reading it before he died. Here is his bookmark, still in the same place.”
Then he hugged me and went to the other house, where he will sleep
with his cousins.
Thank you, God, for this day. I
really don't want it to end. But now it must.
