Wedding Lesson
Preparing for our daughter's wedding was a crucible of appearance versus substance. I was so glad when the day itself came and the happiness and love radiating from the bride and groom dwarfed my concern for the dowdy look of my long sleeves, straight, ankle-length skirt, and flat shoes beside the spaghetti-straps, short flouncy hemlines, and high heels of women-from-away. And nature helped put things in perspective, with silky 70-degree air, mica-sheet sea as the wind held her breath for the ceremony, and a vee of geese flying south overhead to heighten the feeling of blessed pause before winter.
And that's what now stands out in my mind: the day's perfect stillness, showcasing and cementing love and gratitude. The way people dressed, the color of the tablecloths, what food was served, the flowers, have all receded in my mind. The gratitude remains.
But I do remember the enigma of that day: a new member entering the family as an adult. Our son-in-law poses the same dichotomy between appearances and substance that the wedding day did, although only inside my own heart. The first time I saw him, about a year ago, was shortly after I'd gotten word that the book I'd written uncovering the fate of my lost father had been accepted for publication. So my father was on my mind, and as J., our son-in-law-to-be, got out of his car, I noticed that his hair was the same copper color I'd been told my father's was. They also shared the same first name, the same alabaster skin that sunburns too fast on a boat, the same height, and the same hobby (golf).
And on the wedding day, two other resemblances emerged. I discovered that J. is a good dancer, when we shared a dance at the reception. Wives of the veterans who served with my father still raved about my father’s dancing when I interviewed them a few years ago, some sixty years after my father was lost. And later on in the reception, when the wine was flowing and things were getting rowdy, J.'s friends and cousins hoisted him up sideways like a battering ram for a picture. In my father's Naval Academy scrapbook, there's a snapshot of his fellow midshipmen holding him up like that while he mugs for the camera.
The following morning, at the brunch where we Mainers said goodbye to J.'s family and their North Carolina friends, I was telling J. and his mother about all these coincidences. "I'm trying to downplay them," I said, "because they take away from J.’s uniqueness.” And one of the very unique things J.’s done that we'll always be grateful for, is his moving up here to our daughter's home, which involved his sacrificing his specialized job as an insurance litigation attorney, plus his leaving his community of lifetime friends and his supportive family. His move involved a great professional risk, because he had to take the Maine portion of the Bar exam, and now he has to find a new job.
When I saw J.’s friends holding him up sideways, I felt the seductive pull of magical thinking. But despite the reminder of my dad, and the occasion - when sentiment (and wine) can make simple coincidences seem like fate or divine destiny - I turned away. We’d all like to think – especially at big marker events like this – that there’s a benign god at work, looking down on the proceedings and uniting our families with bonds stronger than ourselves. This adds weight and significance to the bride and groom's hopes and dreams. More people have remarked on how the sun broke through clouds and geese flew overhead just when the ceremony began. Even the atheists among us are tempted to see this as a mark of heavenly approval. And in my own case, my urge to link J. with my father is an inchoate wish for a shortcut to a special or deeper connection with a new person. It’s similar to sentimentality, when an overly emotional response stands in for a more natural reaction that we unconsciously fear might not be good enough.
But reality is good enough. Having a son-in-law is uncharted territory, so exotic, it needs no embellishment by the imagination. J’s out there like a separate planet, a mystery too big to fit into any box in my mind that’s about my father. He’s his own person, waiting to become a friend.
