My Wedding Epiphany
This wild wedding was striking a sour note — until something unexpected and wonderful happened
For most of my life —or at least since I was about 12 years old, which is rather a long way back—i’ve been a church organist. It’s work that I have always enjoyed. Particularly weddings. I’ve seen just about everything, and of course, one thing about playing the organ, you’ve got the best seat in the house. But I have to confess that after countless weddings, I was beginning to get just a little bit jaded, sort of “Ho hum, not another one. Well, there goes my Saturday.”
Although I had long since stopped counting, as I drove to the church on a bright, cloudless Alberta Saturday, I roughly calculated that this afternoon’s wedding would be my 800th, give or take a few.
Weddings and music are inseparable, and over many years, I had participated in ceremonies ranging from the ultra-formal to biker gear, from “Desiderata” to “love, honour and obey,” even from Mozart to Metallica.
But while I had once actually enjoyed weddings and eagerly anticipated my small role in making someone’s “big day” that much more special, cynicism had overtaken my enthusiasm lately. Marrying couples, drawn to our suburban parish largely because of its size, accessibility and charm, were more often strangers to our, or indeed any, church community.
Today’s first wedding was certainly going to be different. The happy couple wanted plenty of tunes by Garth Brooks and Tim Mcgraw, which meant a rare trip to the music store, and some actual practice beforehand.
But I could tell before I got out of the car and got wind of the sounds coming from the open windows along the south side of the church, that this would be no ordinary wedding. It sounded like the party had already begun.
It was obviously not your traditional wedding, having a Western theme complete with cowboy attire, relaxed behaviour and the bridal party arriving in a buckboard to whistles and cat- calls. The processional was more like a line dance as the high- spirited congregation tried to get in on the act, shouting ribald encouragement to the happy couple as they made their way to the front of the church. All we needed were peanut shells on the floor and a bucking bronco in the foyer.
The only member of the bridal party with any sense of occasion was the lead bridesmaid, a poised and perfect young lady of about nine who led the procession forward as sedately and seriously as the general chaos permitted.
The service began and things seemed to settle down a bit. The ceremony was interrupted only by sniggering from the front pews and frequent camera flashes—despite the minister’s clear insistence that there be no photography during the actual ceremony. The crowd seemed to be on another planet and I won-
dered as the service moved towards the big climax— with snippets of Brooks and Mcgraw interspersed by me as per script—what was likely to happen when the minister finally got to, “You may now kiss the bride.”
Given all that had transpired, I wasn’t disappointed. The groom literally swept the bride off her feet, bending her backwards nearly to the floor and planting one of those stage kisses that seems to go on forever, to the lascivious accompaniment of whistles, foot stamping and cries of “All ri- i- i- i- ght” from the gallery.
The circus was nearly over, but for a final blessing and the signing of the register. Not for the first time did I wonder why this crew had bothered with a church in the first place when a neighborhood pub would have served their needs equally well, if not better.
But then something happened, clearly off-script, at least as far as everyone but the groom was concerned. Just prior to the final blessing, the groom stepped out of position, got down on one knee next to the nine-year-old bridesmaid, pulled something out of his pocket, looked straight into her eyes and— as far as I was concerned— instantly redeemed himself and the carryings-on of friends and family in the congregation. He opened the box in his hand, removed a small ring and, placing it on her young finger, looked her straight in the eye and said in a clear, serious and assured voice: “I want you to know that I will always love and protect you and your mom; you will never have to be afraid again, and as long as I live, no person will ever hurt you. You and your mom are the joy of my life and I will love you both forever.” Well. Everyone was stunned, then the tears started, mine included, and then the applause, followed by a standing ovation. Then more cheers, whistles and foot stomping, from me, too. The lesson here? Judge not. I had looked at the crowd, the setting and the principal players, and dismissed them all as a bunch of hooligans, unworthy of being in church, unworthy to be embarking on such a sacred journey. Was I wrong? You bet, in just about every way one human being can be wrong about another. I had a quick and effective refresher course in a basic life skill: I repeat, judge not. Instead, now while on the organ bench— and just about everywhere else— I tell myself to keep an open mind. Be charitable first. Trust in the greatness of the human spirit and be warmed by the unique and humbling ways that spirit makes itself known. ■