My son was recently married and people ask me, “How was the wedding?” I’m rarely at a loss for words but answering has given me pause because I want to get it right. I want to answer accurately. I want the answer to be perfect, because, truth be told, the wedding was perfect.
My friend, Lorrie, called. She was unable to attend but had seen pictures posted on Facebook. She asked, “Well, how was it?”
I hesitated and stuttered and stumbled over a couple of words then finally said, “Perfect. Just perfect.”
Lorrie launched, “Well of course it had to have been perfect! Were you really expecting anything else? I mean just look at these photos posted on Facebook! Good lord I’ve never seen such good looking people! What could you have been thinking if you hadn’t thought it would be perfect!?”
I don’t know … I really didn’t consider perfection obtainable in anything, especially a wedding where there are multitudes of uncontrollable variables that could throw a wrench into the best of well-planned events.
Once the wedding week commenced I only had to be in charge of a few items: hosting the rehearsal dinner and a couple things that can only be done at the last minute – making boutonnieres for the groomsmen, and creating the flower arrangements for the church. That last “thing,” the church flowers, was a biggie for me and had been weighing heavily on my mind. Anybody, especially an amateur, who has ever been responsible for the floral arrangements for a wedding knows real angst. Wednesday found me in my mother’s backyard under her magnificent magnolia tree, perched on a rickety ladder with several sharp cutting implements, and plenty of advice being shouted up from below. Thursday found me in the church persuading those 6 foot magnolia branches into arrangements that would be nice, understated backdrops for the upcoming nuptials. It was accomplished without too much trouble and when I left, I felt relieved that the most critical of my responsibilities was finished. It mattered not one iota that I had bloodied an eyeball in the process by getting too up-close and personal with a magnolia stick. As long as those gargantuan arrangements didn’t tip over, it was all good. Then, I relaxed and vowed to “be present” in every moment.
The events and parties as prequels came and went and I was very “present” and aware of the beauty of each moment … until the moment when my older son gently took my arm to escort me down the aisle to seat me on the front row to witness my younger son’s marriage. From that moment I not only felt “present,” I was levitating.
The ceremony was truly perfect; nobody messed up, the officiant, who happens to be my husband, said good things, the music was tasteful and exquisite, the bride and groom were calm, dignified and gorgeous, the flower girl and ring bearer were perfectly behaved and didn’t steal the show, the best man, my older son, didn’t lose the rings, nobody dropped the rings (that happens), I didn’t become a blubbering fool when my husband and sons made their appearance at the front of the church as the procession began, and the arrangements of magnolia didn’t tip over.
Sure, I had a bloody eyeball, my dress had a stubborn wrinkle and I’m pretty sure my bra strap made an appearance, but if you ask me, it was perfect.