Trying to add a payment method? You can do this on the 
This time, it was our living room. It was full of beautiful, fluffy dresses, draped on the backs of couches, the tulle and chiffon hiding dangerous pins in the bodices. The bridesmaids and I struggled to fit these fragile gowns, not designed for easy altering.
The house radiated with an air of urgency and excitement. Cinnamon rolls, zuppa Toscana and pulled pork filled the freezer, and a long list on a kitchen whiteboard told the arrivals and departures of siblings and relatives. Amazon and FedEx delivered daily and large boxes full of wedding gifts appeared in the carport.
“It’s our turn,” said Emily, our middle daughter, who flew home from Tennessee ahead of time to clean light fixtures and weed flower beds, joining her sister Amy who came from Thailand weeks before to cook for the rehearsal dinner and a weekend of hosting relatives.
Our kids have been involved in many weddings, experiencing the flurry in the bridesmaids’ or groomsmen’s room before the ceremony, setting tables and arranging flowers in the reception hall, and reading prayers in a Catholic friend’s service.
This time, as Emily said, it was our turn. Our son Ben was marrying the lovely Elizabeth, and it was our living room, our family, our anticipation and celebration, our daughters pivoting in front of the mirror in flowing dresses and shopping for the right shoes.
Ben, an engineering instructor at OSU, met Elizabeth Wartnik, who grew up in Florence and worked in Grants Pass, a year and a half ago. An insightful woman named Laura got to know Ben at their church in Corvallis and realized her college friend Kerri had a daughter a bit younger than Ben. Laura made the connections, both parties agreed, and Ben and Elizabeth soon discovered they shared a love of the most important things in life: Jesus, hiking and Lord of the Rings. They were engaged last summer.
Mennonites place a high value on marriage and family, and they tend to marry young. When our children’s friends and cousins followed that tradition, including six of them in one busy summer, it felt like celebrations were for everyone else’s families — but not for ours.
The opposite was also true, when other families faced disappointment and loss while our kids successfully pursued education, adventure and careers. I felt at times like we traveled a protected path, immune to others’ heartaches.
Our oldest, Matt, married Phoebe in an outdoor ceremony six years ago. My big-church-wedding dreams were altered due to Covid restrictions, but the joy of that day was fully ours to savor.
This year, our family faced enormous sorrow and joy within six months, as our youngest son, Steven, passed away suddenly in November and his brother Ben was to be married in April. I felt like a balloon, so full of huge emotions that I feared I’d burst into fragments at the worst possible time, like during the vows.
Instead, I cried hard while we took photos of the remaining siblings, beautiful and smiling in front of a lilac bush in a park on a sunny day, with Steven’s absence an engulfing reality.
But then, somehow, I gathered my courage and deliberately rejoiced through the rest of the day — the Anglican marriage service, the vows, the reception, the sendoff and the cleanup, walking with Paul to our seat in the second row, reading a Scripture passage on the platform with Elizabeth’s mom, presenting a mother-of-the-groom speech at the reception, enjoying cheesecake and coffee, and gathering the scattered pincushions and cosmetics from the deserted bridesmaids’ preparation room at the end of the day.
It was all beautiful, and I fully felt the joy. When the time is right, the waiting ends and the gift appears.
Weddings, I’ve concluded, are about so much more than two people in love. They’re also about kitchens full of bustling aunts finding more forks and discussing the flower arrangements, a melding of different backgrounds into a new family line, and carrying on what others began, a mandate to love and cherish not only each other but the generations past and future.
Elizabeth’s relatives, whose ancestors came from multiple continents and religious traditions, mingled and chatted with Ben’s relatives who are 100% Swiss German, of solid peasant stock, all the way back. A Mexican aunt slung her arm across my shoulders after the ceremony. “Wasn’t that beautiful?” she said. “Now. Bring on the babies!”
We laughed. That’s what a Mennonite mom would think but not say, and it was delightful to know that our cultural differences did not prevent us from fully understanding each other.
After the wedding, the couple left on their honeymoon and we relaxed and enjoyed a weekend with our kids and my five siblings and their spouses, all of whom came from far away to connect, validate and celebrate. We switched from English to our Pennsylvania German dialect as needed, reminisced, worshipped together on Sunday morning, and ate Amy’s exquisite and nourishing food. My siblings and in-laws insisted on doing dishes, freeing me to rest or visit.
Life doesn’t ask my permission, I’ve found. It’s best to let it unfold in its own time, neither grasping impatiently for the good things or living in dread of the bad. When it’s my turn, the balloon inside can hold a wide array of emotions without bursting, as long as I’m surrounded by the loving support of my precious and plentiful people.
