Waiting for the Wedding Day

I remember the morning of my wedding. The enormity of what we were embarking on pressed on me. All I wanted to do to calm my nerves and reassure my heart was talk to Scott—just briefly, just hear his voice. Unfortunately, one of his groomsmen, in the name of tradition, had spirited away his phone to ensure that our first contact of the day was at the church altar.

So, like many other brides before me, I made it through the morning of my wedding left to my own devices. I donned the most exquisite dress I’ve ever worn. I laughed with my friends. I practiced waltzing with my dad around our dining room. I hugged my mom. And I waited.

When I entered the back of my childhood church sanctuary, my arm linked through the crook at my dad’s elbow, it was as if I were walking in a dream. The swirl of emotions, the faces of so many I loved and who loved me turned to watch me. So much preparation, so many conversations, and we were finally here. When we rounded the corner to come down the center aisle, and Scott and I finally locked eyes, I knew once again that this was right, that I wanted to spend the rest of my life by his side.

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Adulthood's "Rusty Tools"

It’s funny: I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox, full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience. But then when I grew up I found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools—friendships, prayer, conscience,  honesty—and said, Do the best you can with these, they will have to do. And mostly, against all odds, they’re enough.

—Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith

As a child, adults seem to have special powers. In elementary school, high schoolers seemed so grown up, so wise. And then you find yourself walking through the halls of the typical American high school, with the relationship drama, destructive pranks, and sophomoric arrogance—perhaps not so grown up after all.

I remember a moment of realization in high school that I was now the age of those teenagers I had once looked up to. I was now the person on the stage in the high school play, or leading worship with my youth group, or helping at summer camp. And remembering my perception as a 10 year old of those so seemingly grown-up teens, I struggled to know if I had been so grossly mistaken or if the maturity levels of teens had dropped precipitously since my days in elementary school.

Considering the repetition of this sentiment, I’m inclined to believe that it’s the former. When we’re young, we think those older than us have discovered the secrets of life or have some sort of insider knowledge. But then we grow up and realize that part of becoming an adult is figuring it out as you go along, without secret knowledge, sometimes without knowing where your next step will take you.

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Around the Family Table

There’s always been room for one more chair at the table. For several years, we held at fifteen around the tables stretching out of my grandparents’ dining room. Then boyfriends came, who turned into husbands, and added one, then two chairs. Now the arrival of the next generation brings new lives to the table. There’s never been a question of how we’ll fit everyone—we just nestle in a little tighter and slide another chair into place.

What fond memories I have of this scene—the cheerful bustling of the holidays, the laughter. We always seem to forget which way to pass the food, sending the bowls of corn and mashed potatoes into a jumbled cross-armed handover. Four or five conversations simmer at once, with some able to dip into all of them.

Over the years this family has pulled others into its fold, like some sort of very friendly amoeba. It’s a family with open arms, willing—and eager—to pull another person into warmth of being known, being loved. And the thing that’s so beautiful about it is that I don’t think it’s even a conscious or “intentional” decision.

I know I am running the risk of putting my family on some sort of pedestal—which is hardly my intention. But in an age in which so many of my generation face strings of divorces, family factions who will not speak to each other, aunts, uncles, and cousins strung across the country, and grandparents they see at best on Christmas or Thanksgiving, I feel so blessed to have a family that is functional, intact, and likes each other the majority of the time. I know that it’s a rarity.

It’s not completely idyllic—we all have our quirks and foibles, and we aren’t immune from the occasional familial spats, disagreements, and frustrations. But we know that the next holiday will find us squeezed around that same table again, engaged in the same antics as we have year after year. We’re family.

And what of the family of God—Christ’s beloved church?

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