Love is always at hand

You may be wondering why I never wrote about it. I may have needed some space to put a bit of reflection and time into it. Or perhaps Ive just been lazy. Or maybe it isnt really even any of your business. :-P

We were a bit late getting out of the cottage. My older daughter was not with us, so my wife dropped my daughter and I at church (we both serve in some capacity) while she rushed home to get ready and to get my other daughter. We were there about seven fifteen, which is about fifteen minutes earlier than I normally would get there. So with my friend the caretaker, I set up the folk groups microphones and PA system

After setting the equipment up, I went downstairs to join the other singers, who were waiting for the practice to begin. While we were waiting, the singer we least expected to be there walked in with her husband. You see, she was checked into the hospital, booked in for major surgery the next day. She joked that she was on shore leave.It was amazing and inspiring to see her there.

I had written a psalm arrangement for the occasion, but I left the words upstairs. So I had to hum how it went for everyone. We went upstairs, and because they only knew it by humming, we all kind of sang the phrases a bit differently. Nothing ever goes as planned.

Sooner than I expected, the good Father called us to the altar. We were facing each other, staring, as we had all those years ago. We always stared, actually. It is the one thing I still remember vividly from the first few weeks we dated.

We said our vows. I stared straight into her eyes, and I said the words without fumbling, without hesitating. Earlier that day, I had worried I would be distracted and unfocused, as I so often can be. But I wasnt.

No, this moment was joined in time to an August day decades ago. This September day and that August day were one. I looked in my wifes eyes and I saw this woman smile at me. And I also looked into the eyes of the nervous girl from August. It is a moment of supreme commitment, a moment in which I realize that my life is not my own it belongs to her, it belongs to her family, it belongs to my family. It belongs to our childrenand their children after that. It belongs to the people seated in the pews, to the priest solemnizing this moment, and to the God who, somehow through all the chaos of free will, planned this for us. Tears are running from my right eye, but I am not ashamed, and I am not sad. This moment is love. There is no worry, anger, shame, blame, or jealousy in this moment. Only love an ephemeral thing that is always waiting to rush in on wings, and fragile enough to be chased off by cares and worry. But ever-present all the same.

When we were done, the priest said a blessing on our shore-leave singer, and the love that was in the building continued full force. Standing near her was her husband her friend, lover, her helper, and comfort. We were all one that night. The whole congregation, united in genuine love.