Wedding of the Century Part Deux: Why I Cried

(Although I reserve the right to change my mind, this post wraps up my Thoughts about WotCII. I have no lovelier memory than this.)

I cried twice during the hours when we celebrated the marriage of Boy#2 to his Lovely Girl.

By nature I am the most tear-prone person in any room. I cry at airports (both departures and arrivals), fall foliage, Hallmark commercials, the sight of perfect baby toes. But this wedding was so purely joyful that tears were almost unthinkable.

Almost, until that moment when the doors swung open at the end of that long, carpeted aisle, and my son saw his bride arriving on her father's arm.

I was watching his face and I could see that first glimpse through his eyes, the moment when the organ prelude switched to triumphal bridal procession and she took her first steps toward him. The years melted away. I had seen that face the moment he was drawing his first breath, and truly, this felt the same.

As I did when he was born, I cried for just a moment.

And then we blessed them, and received the holy moments that were the ceremony and their vows, and as the church doors were flung open again for our newlyweds to walk back down the aisle together, the sun suddenly came out for the first time that day. They took their first steps of marriage in a blaze of light. If I had seen it in a movie, I would have rolled my eyes and called it impossible; it was that kind of day.

It wasn't until near the end of the reception that I cried again. The toasts had been splendid--touching, funny, heartfelt. Dinner was lovely, and the special dances that opened the dance were heartwarming. But then the band kicked up the volume and the real celebration began.

As a family, we aren't really dancers. Boy#1 danced largely because Lovely Girl#1 loves to dance, and Husband pulled me onto the floor for the slow numbers, but the floor was packed with college friends and people from Wisconsin, because hooo-boy! Those Wisconsin folks love to dance. Even M.'s grandfather, whose mobility is limited to a wheelchair, was on the floor and keeping time to the beat of Uptown Funk. 

M. is a dancer, though, and by that I mean she is a real dancer: She was a competitive figure skater until a knee injury ended her skating in her late teens, and then she became part of her university's competitive ballroom dance team. One of my favorite pictures is of her in full competition mode, toe pointed, shoulders squared, eyes focused on an imaginary point beyond her partner's shoulder.

For much of the evening Two and M. were busy circulating, greeting loved ones and accepting hugs and good wishes. They danced often, though, and as the hours wore on I stopped watching their every movement.

It was a few minutes before the clock was to strike the ending hour of the day when I noticed a commotion on the dance floor. I looked up to see that those tireless dancers and friends had slid to the edge of the floor, forming a circle.

Inside the circle was our new Lovely Girl#2, her head thrown back, and she was spinning and spinning and spinning. Her beautiful dress billowed out as she pirouetted, and with every revolution she was seeing her new husband cheering her on, a Best Beloved among her beloveds. And then she grabbed the handles of her grandfather's wheelchair and ran with him as they circumnavigated the circle again, high-fiving and laughing.

Tears rolled down my cheeks.

This is the way it should start. In joy and sunlight and laughter and music and family and friends, and just a few tears to baptize this new beginning.

Amen, and amen.