“Who’s staying at the groom’s house?” asked a young blond in her early twenties. Another young lady and a young man were standing with her on the steps of a large, white, southern colonial-style house on a hot summer evening in North Florida.
“All the groomsmen,” I heard the other young lady reply as I walked by them up the steps, “…and her.” She pointed at me.
Well, this was embarrassing.
My special gift to the world is that if there is ever an opportunity in any given situation for there to be a “that girl,” I will be her. “That girl at the party who pulled a muscle trying to Dougie,” “that girl at the baseball game who fell a row of seats attempting to catch a foul ball,” and “that girl in the supermarket parking lot who was projectile-vomited on by a stranger’s baby.” All have been satisfied by yours truly. Thus I decided there was no reason not to satisfy the role then. We were at a rehearsal dinner; it needed a “that girl.” As I passed I made eye contact, awkwardly flipping my hair. “‘Sup?” I said with a cock of the chin and kept walking. I was wearing a black, form-fitting cocktail dress, three-inch heels, and had a food baby the size of a bowling ball. Digesting was suddenly an extreme sport; I had to sit down.
As with most rehearsal dinners the food was fantastic, spirits were high, and lit candles were lining every table, window sill, and every other surface within reach that could hold them. I’d spent most of dinner sitting next to my friend Jill, who was nine months pregnant, eating equal portions as her and the two of us remarking with rabid fervor that if Joe, who had left is plate on our table, didn’t come back soon we were going to ravage his baked-potato like nothing the world had ever seen. His loss, he left it there. We then leaned back, laughed and talked, letting our tummies pooch-round–hers filled with baby, mine filled with food. My care factor for propriety was low, and by the time I overheard the above conversation I was just finishing a very short-lived attempt at walking off my second-helpings of sliced pork.
After the celebrations I helped the groomsmen clean and break everything down and then headed back to the groom’s house to get in my PJs, practice guitar for the following day’s ceremony, and drink wine and enjoy the company of all those in the house. By the time I did hit the wine portion of the evening it was me, the groom, Jeremy, a few groomsmen, the groom’s sister, Hannah, and the groom’s parents’, Sonya and Brian, gathered in the kitchen enjoying the fact that I’d clearly had one too many and arguing back and forth about not going to bed.
“All right, guys. It’s time. Go upstairs, I insist,” Sonya said, giving us all her best stern voice behind a huge, high-spirited smile.
“I don’t want toooo!” We all whined in succession. “You can’t make me!”
“Now,” she said firmly, “let’s go.”
“Oh. My. Gosh. Like, my name is Sonya and I am such a valley girl, like, totally!” I mocked. I blame the wine.
“Oh em gee, like so totally go to bed,” joined Hannah, who had no wine to blame.
“Oh, whatever!” Sonya said, laughing. “Go now!” We all shuffled through the kitchen, dragging our feet behind us.
“Noooo,” we continued as we dispersed and made way to our respective beds/sofas. I, however, with wine still in hand, decided on a last stand. I reached the second step of the staircase, turned around, looked at Sonya at the bottom and shouted, “No! You can’t make me!!” Then I threw my head back, “I’M AN ADULT!!!” and I stomped my way upstairs to bed as she and the others all laughed.
My relationship with this family is rather dynamic, and is unlike my relationship with virtually all other friends in my life. I was first introduced to Sonya as somewhat of an ‘older peer.’ She was a doctoral student in the Religion Department at Florida State, and I was an undergrad. Then I began attending the same church and I met her husband, Brian, who instantly became a friend and someone I went to for advice. A few months later their youngest son, Micah, began attending the youth group while I was the youth intern. That same summer I met their oldest son, Jeremy. And finally came their middle daughter, Hannah, who had the unfortunate circumstance of having to associate with me in public by way of the other family members. But we grew close quickly, and soon she was giving half of her bedroom to me every time I visited Tallahassee. She and I bonded over multiple “guy vs. girl” prank wars, among other things.
So really, to come in town for Jeremy’s wedding and stay at the groom’s house with all the groomsmen was not strange to any of us. Likewise, to stand at the foot of the stairs in my pajamas with a raging food baby hanging out and a half-empty third glass of wine in hand insisting via shouting to the woman to whom I’d both gone for advice as well as had lengthy discussions about the evolving tradition of lament in Judaism and Christianity after the Holocaust, that I am an adult, and I refuse to go to bed…well, this was not particularly strange to any of us either.
The next morning was an expected but somewhat organized scramble. Everyone in the house was rushing to get ready and head to the church on time for pictures before the ceremony. I woke up last, drank coffee and ate breakfast, then headed to the church in my pajama shirt and a pair of jeans for the musicians’ practice. After practice I rushed back to the house, showered and dressed, and turned around and headed back to the church for the ceremony.
I watched the service from the south transept with the rest of the worship band, hidden from the view of those in the pews but at a perfect angle to watch the bride and groom from in-front exchange vows and rings. As I sat with the other singer, Lindsey, watching Angela say her vows, Lindsey leaned over and whispered, “She’s getting married.”
“I know,” I gushed. You see, what made this wedding so special is not only how dear and precious the groom and his family are to me, but the bride as well–Angela. I spent several weeks in Uganda with her during the summer of 2009. It was a vulnerable experience, and she, Lindsey and I shared it with each other. So for the two of us to sing at Angela’s wedding was an honor, to say the least. More still, when we returned from Uganda Angela and I spent the summer living and working together, growing closer each day. That was the same summer I met Jeremy… and Jeremy met Angela. That was my girl right there. She is precious to me. And she was getting married to a wonderful man whose family held a special place in my heart. I could not have asked for a better match among friends.
As we sat my eyes glided over to Jeremy. He had elation written all over him. Just a few days before I had lamented that he and I had not been able to talk on Skype for a while and check-in on each other. It was the week before his wedding, and I know we both really wanted that time but we got busy and distracted. But the night before, somewhere after putting on PJs and before the wine took me over, Jeremy came into the kitchen, sat down next to me and leaned his head on my shoulder. I leaned back on him as we linked arms and sat in silence. He knew I love him. He knew I was proud. My lament disappeared.
Fr. John preached a beautiful sermon on why we say, “I will” and not “I do” in our wedding services. He also reminded all of us of the commitment we made in the ceremony to do all within our power to keep these two committed to one another and together, to which we all said, “We will.” The music cued. The band began and Lindsey and I stood to sing our hearts out as we led the ending procession. Afterward everyone went downstairs to the ‘cake and fruit’ reception while the bride and groom took more pictures. When they finished, Angela walked over to me and a few friends. We had been watching the shoot from the back of the church together.
“Whew! This dress is hot!” she said, fanning her ball-gown poof.
“Aww,” we said, giggling.
“You’re married!” said a friend.
“I know!” she replied with glee.
“You know what’s so great about it, though?” I said. “So often when I go to friends’ weddings all anyone can say is, ‘I can’t believe they’re married!’ But it doesn’t feel that way with you two. It just . . . make sense.”
“I agree,” said a friend. “It just seems so natural. It feels very ‘right.’” Angela glowed. We helped her fan her dress a few more times to get some air to her poor sweating legs underneath all the slips, and then made way with the bridal party and family to the reception.
Finally, after we had our fill of cake and fruit, and the bride and groom greeted every last guest; after the room was empty and we gathered our stuff; after all the ladies finished rubbing their feet and putting their heels back on and freshening their make-up, we loaded our cars and headed to a beautiful wooded plantation for the private dinner reception where we danced the night away.
Will I do all within my power to help these two remain committed to one another for the rest of their lives?
I will. It just seems so natural, so right. So say we all?
Anna
