Friday Night

One Friday evening, years ago, when the hands on the clock were rising, a wedding was about to begin.   The weather of early June had already become humid.  The light streaming through the church windows was softer than the bright forenoon light during Sunday morning worship.  Hurricane lamps and candelabras sprinkled light on the petals of the yellow roses adding a golden glow to the sanctuary.

My brothers stood with me.  Standing required great will for they were nervous and sweating profusely.  My task was to tease them and to tie their ties.  Blood brothers, soon-to-be brother-in-law, foreign exchange student brother – brothers all, then and after.  They were all there smiling and glistening – mostly from moist foreheads with an occasional droplet cascading to the carpet – my hope was than none would faint.

The music started as, in the narthex, the bride’s entourage gathered for the procession setting the stage for the bride.  All of our parents were healthy and there.  Between us we still had one grandparent, Grandma Jo, who could celebrate the evening with us.  We were young, really young.  The fleeting time given to crossing the threshold from childhood to responsible adult and parenthood was beyond our conscious grasp on that pleasant spring evening.  Family was forever.

Outside that church on that evening, the tumultuous times had reached another crescendo.  The news was dominated by the latest in a series of assassinations that punctuated a decade of turmoil, terrorism, transition and tumult.  A war raged on; a war disavowed by many and fought by the few who were compelled to go.  Winnie and I didn’t anticipate that we would spend our wedding night watching funeral proceedings for Bobby Kennedy.

With the Maid of Honor and Bride’s Maids walking slowly toward us, you would expect my thoughts to turn to not screwing up when it was time to speak, kneel or move to the appointed place.  Those thoughts came but so did worry about the new job, the draft notice just received and the rent payment due to our new landlady, Mrs. Reeves. 

Then she was there.  My bride and her dad stepped into the sanctuary.  As the organ began to play the Bridal March, they walked slowly to where I, and my sweating brothers, and the smiling Bride’s Maids, and the dour preacher, were assembled.  As she gracefully walked she smiled and nodded at family and friends.  Wedding planning was done and it’s possible that in the distant recesses of her mind she was wondering what actually getting married would mean for her future.

Yesterday there was a story on the local public radio station about a survey conducted among young adults.  The gist of it was that only about one in four women were looking for a committed relationship.  About twice that many young men reported that they wanted a long term relationship.  As the story went on, the definitions of “committed” and “long term” were more closely examined.  One of the big changes that seems to have taken hold is that committed is not a synonym for marriage and long term is measured in months rather than ‘til death forces a parting.

The ceremony was conventional.  Our vows were traditional.  Conventional and traditional were still the norm.  New age vows in the decade when free love and communal living had taken root were part of the backdrop of the times but not part of our personal experiences.  The rings were exchanged having been delivered to the altar by a young sister and a nephew – cute children who, as always, elicited lots of oohs and doting smiles.  I can’t remember if the minister pronounced us “man and wife” or “husband and wife” but he completed his duty as officiate.   And the result was certain.  Our marriage had been legally rendered before the state and consecrated in a Presbyterian Church as a sacred rite.

We turned and were presented to the gathered guests.  My bride nudged me with the reminder that I was supposed to look at her as we walked back down the aisle.  Of course, I whispered something romantic back to her.  She has always maintained that I said, “Not a bad crowd for a Friday night.”

Since that Friday night the years and leap years have rotated through the decades to bring us to the coming Friday evening when we will mark the milestone of forty-five years of marriage.  So much has changed.  Forty-five years of life has intervened.  Befitting of the journey we started on that Friday night in June, 1968, we’ll check our bags on the Amtrak train almost exactly upon the hour we walked out of the church.  We’ve learned what “committed” means but we’re still working on the definition of “long term”.  We’re blessed to get to journey on.

--td