“Just a wedding,” said Isobel. “To be honest, I don’t think such a thing exists.” –Madeleine Wickham

I had such big plans for my wedding day.  Besides getting married, I mean.  I planned for the morning to be a time of quiet reflection: a short run, a cup of coffee on the porch with Jesus and the book He wrote, conversation with the fam. Instead, I awoke in my twin bed with the scratchy sheets, thought to myself, That Ambien on top of margaritas and wine–not such a hot idea, and barreled down the stairs to puke in the closest bathroom.

Romantic, no?

In a testament to how much fun our rehearsal dinner was, and how happy I was to see familiar yet infrequent faces, I tossed my two-drink minimum plan for Friday night out the window and yielded instead to a hearty mixture of tequila, various brands of red wine, and champagne.  The perfect storm.  A storm that was followed the next day, my wedding day, by a hangover from hell and wet gray dreariness outside.  My nausea still had not graciously exited the building when, around 11, it was time to clean up and head to the hair salon.  So The Mom drew me a bath, just like she did when I was three, and washed my hair.  Then I managed to stand long enough for The Sis to dry it.  Though it wasn’t happening through my own hands, I was taken care of.

We piled into the Jeep and The Sis, knowing me and my hangovers only too well, handed me one of the extra welcome buckets that we had given out to wedding guests. The cute little sand pails with a picture of me and the BF on the side that The Mom’s friend had so thoughtfully volunteered to make.  She intended the bucket to hold water and snacks.  But ten minutes later, as we three ladies pulled into Seaside, I said, “I’m gonna hurl,” and proceeded to expand the function of the welcome bucket.  Versatility!

The girls at the salon took one look at me as I walked in and winced.  “Party much last night?” my hairdresser winked, and I responded by nearly throwing up on her head.  The Mom scurried to get me a Coke–formerly consumed as a childhood treat, now as a hangover medication–as The Sis sat down in the hair chair and I lay down on a nearby couch.  The owner of the salon stepped out then and saw me.  “You need some TLC.  And hydration,” she announced, and I held up my Coke.  “No, honey, for your face,” she clarified, and I was glad I hadn’t managed to look at a mirror yet.  She pointed to a back room, which I headed into after a short detour to the bathroom.  I lay down on a massage table and she proceeded to rub my face down with all sorts of moisturizers, her hands and the products cool to my skin.  Once again, taken care of.  I thought of the verses of Isaiah 61 that we picked out for the ceremony, words that I had been delving into all week to understand their layers of meaning.  Specifically, the verse that mentions the “oil of gladness.”  I had found that in biblical times, oil placed on the head signified a few things: joy, honor, health, consecration, healing.  I felt these blessings being massaged into my face by, once again, hands other than my own.  I felt the lifting of the hangover cloud.  But the clouds outside were growing darker and more ominous.

So I got my hair did and we headed to the club where the ceremony and reception were to be held.  I had to be walked to the car and the club under an umbrella to protect me from the newly but heavily falling rain. Sandy From The Kitchen was kind enough to bring us trays of sandwiches, fruit, and champagne (hair of the dog!) and PG was next in the lineup of Hands Taking Care of Me as she applied my makeup.  Then, time to put on the dress and shoes and head downstairs to get hitched.  I felt nothing but excitement; no nervousness, no fear, no anxiety. Even in the midst of rain. This, my friends, is nothing short of a miracle.

I’ll write more later about that walk down the aisle and the moments after it. What I will say is that the rain stopped.  And GB, the minister, made the ceremony personal and reflective and true.  He mentioned several times that our marriage is a gift, and at times we will have to rely on the gift of grace to keep it going.  No effort of our own will ever be enough.  For a Type A control freak who is also a believer, this message is not new; I’ve been beating my head against it for years now.  But a few minutes later, as we walked into the open air to be photographed, I saw the glory of what all my trying just cannot achieve.

A double rainbow.  All the way.

In that moment, the calm after the storm, I thought about the perfect day I envisioned and the better-than-perfect one that unfolded.  The time I had mapped out to spend preparing myself, praying, thanking, gearing up, the way I lost it by vying for World Tequila Champion, the disappointment I felt over that and the deeper level hidden by that disappointment–the fear that I had messed up too much to deserve it.  It being any number of things in my life: love, acceptance, forgiveness, a beautiful wedding day.  And yet, here it was right in front of me.

“God really likes me,” I pronounced gamely to my friends gathered to witness the post-rain colors, hamming up my moments of having all eyes on me (both a wonderful and horrifying thing).  But for some reason, He really does.  Grace is so unearned, so unexpected, so perfect.  My plans end when my imagination is spent and I put down the pencil; grace goes all the way.