Pardon my French, ladies and gentlemen, but I feel it incumbent upon myself to inform you all that the shit has indeed hit the fan.
Once upon a time, a redheaded girl in Alabama dreamed about her wedding day. The white dress, the colorful flowers, the friends and family celebrating. And most of all, the man who would be at the end of the aisle. This girl would steal her Sis’s blankie (Pinky, if you must know) and drape it over her head, looking more like a nun or an old-school nurse than a bride…but no matter. The dream was instilled, the meaning of it growing with each year.
And how many years there were! Some of them really good, some largely forgettable, some altogether painful. But the dream held, even though it may have been battered and bruised along the way. Largely due to its deferment and the ensuing fluctuation of hope. And maybe some really, really questionable dating choices. But like Oscar winner Sandra Bullock and non-Oscar winner Harry Connick Jr. will tell you, hope does indeed float. In this case, it floated along for a good decade past its assumed realization. And it turned out that the reality was even better than the dream.
In regard to the man at the end of the aisle, at least. The rest…well, the rest has been interesting.
As predicted, Saturday morning’s walk to work was terrible. But I had no idea that it would be the single worst walk I’ve ever endured in the city. I entertained the sane notion of taking the bus before I defiantly remembered that New Yorkers do not negotiate with terrorists or weather. So I set out for my mile-and-a-half journey, rain jacket zipped around me, sunflower umbrella in hand. Once I hit Second Avenue, I was met with the troubling vision of umbrella carcasses lining the street. Torn nylon and splayed metal warned of those who had gone before me and failed. Ahh, I thought, but they likely weren’t half-marathoners or Christians or women in the throes of wedding planning. I haughtily considered myself up to the challenge before me.
I was wrong. Pelting rain and twenty-five-mile-an-hour winds left the half-marathoner struggling for breath within minutes; the Christian was throwing the F-bomb around like beads at Mardi Gras (to be fair, I directed it at the devil, but I doubt that’s the best way to engage in spiritual–or weather–warfare). And as for the wedding planner, we’ll get to her in a minute. By the time I darkened the door of my office, I was raw with anger and heel bruises from too-small rubber boots. My mood had taken a terminal beating and the day had barely started.
If who we are is best revealed in the storms of life, then Jesus and I have a little independent study to do.
Cut to Sunday night, when I was sitting on the BF’s couch with the computer burning in my lap, engaging in the seemingly enjoyable task of picking out presents for other people to buy for us. Known as The Registry. Within twenty minutes, my shoulders were stiff with anxiety. It was all beginning to get to me: the hundreds of choices that have to be made, both for the big day and for every day after (nylon-coated or metal measuring spoons? six or three-quart saute pan? aaarrrgggghhh…); family issues that have nothing to do with the wedding cropping up because of the wedding; childhood dreams and expectations (and no, I am not talking about MINE); coordinating multiple schedules. I felt my sanity and patience, both of which are already in short supply on a good day, being whittled down with every minute in front of the screen. With every email and phone call and schedule change. With every implication that my dreams are all nice and fluffy and good, but someone else actually has a better idea of how this day should be handled.
I know my options at times like this. One: sit in a corner in the fetal position, alternately crying and yelling about the frustration of it all. Two, disconnect from the whole thing completely, let everyone else run the show, and act like I don’t care about the details of the biggest day of my life thus far. Three…shut up and look up.
Planning the big day has forced me into a kind of prayer boot-camp. Who knew? I need more grace and help during these few months than I ever imagined. During the Two Worst Years of My Life, prayer was easy. I was desperate. God was the life boat on an obviously stormy sea. But this storm is different. This storm wears the guise of Greatest Day Ever, Happiest Time of My Life, Moment I Will Treasure Always. This day has the white dress, the colorful flowers, the friends and family celebrating. But in our preparation for that celebrating, our humanness is all too apparent. We arrive at this moment with luggage sets full of our own emotional baggage and expectations that determine the role we think we should play. Mine, I have realized, is Bride Who Gets Everything Done the Way She Dreamed Because This Is Her Day and She Has Waited FOREVER, dammit!
Meanwhile, in their respective forms of healing and brokenness, the other players gather and plan for a day that looks varying degrees of different from my dream. And somehow, we have to come to an agreement.
We need help.
Good thing I know an expert storm-calmer, a walking-on-water sort. Because I honestly don’t know how I would get through a day, much less a season of rain, without a Rock beneath it all or the assurance that Yes, Virginia, there is a wedding day and no, dear, it is actually not the most important day of your life. Every day is, it turns out. Because every day is the day when I have an opportunity to realize that perfection does not exist this side of heaven and there is a provision for that disappointment. And that provision doesn’t come in the form of a fake smile or trite cliche or temporary Band-Aid. It comes in the form of scars and weaknesses just as much as triumph and joy. It comes with dreams deferred and long waits and room to grow. It comes with the confession of, “I’m not there yet and neither are you, so let’s do the best we can with grace.” It comes with letting go and watching to see what the rain has washed away, and starting from that place…not so much Perfect, but most definitely Real.