When I was married about this time of year, we had a similar vista of snow-filled fields and lawns. We’d had a few weeks of mild weather and then were blessed with a severe last effort snowstorm.
By the week of our wedding, early in April, the streets were again dry, the air warm and inviting. The church we had chosen for the event was not so inviting a locale, however. I was involved in the youth group there at the time. Rob was not. We had agreed to be married in my church, with a minister from his. The rehearsal went well, the church sanctuary and hall were decorated; all was in readiness.
However, the day prior to the wedding my dad drove into the churchyard and his truck sank axle deep in mud. The church parking lot wasn’t paved and there were no sidewalks on the property. We discussed, not very calmly, how we would get into the building without disaster; where would our guests park, how could the ladies doing the catering possibly carry their heavily laden platters and containers inside safely? No answers there.
My dad and Rob made a stop at another local church, to beg the use of their facilities on short notice. They were surprised, not only at the lateness of the request but that we also needed the use of a kitchen and space for a sit-down meal for a crowd.
God smiled on us that day. They were able to accommodate us and our guests. They had plenty of parking, a large basement hall with kitchen and even an organ for our choices of wedding music.
It is interesting when I review the events of the past. Our soloist was a young woman I didn’t know. She had a lovely soprano voice but had never sung a solo to my knowledge. I’m sure she was shocked at the request, maybe even surprised at herself for agreeing. Chrissie had attended Bible college with Rob for two years. She was from the Vancouver area. I can’t recall that I ever saw her again.
Rob’s three best friends were a part of the service, two serving as ushers, one the organist. I’m sure they had expected to be his groomsmen, but he had two soon-to-be brothers-in-law to fill those roles.
Doug Spreeman was an inspired organist. I no longer recall the extent of music we chose for him. When he began War March of the Priests by Mendelssohn it was the signal for dad and me. We were nervously clutching each other, ready to proceed down the aisle. My instincts were to rush forward and get on with things. Walking sedately seemed like a big order. I’m sure I had a death grip on his jacket sleeve.
A snapshot of the steady procession shows us each pale and ready to bolt. The span of the audience was helpful. During those moments we had no idea of who was in the building. That short strip of flooring was the longest I have ever walked.
Photos taken after the wedding show us all smiles and hugs, hugging family and friends, posing with one group after another. My favourite is taken with my grandparents. Rob never knew his own and embraced mine wholeheartedly. My side of the family with our stoic Mennonite heritage wasn’t accustomed to hugging. Rob soon changed that. Grandma quickly learned to lean in, reaching for her hug before it was even offered.
Just for fun I looked up March of the Priests on YouTube. There were many offerings to listen to, five to seven or more minutes in length. The longer version I listened to was played by Sean Jackson on a four keyboard organ, with panels of buttons and many pedals. It sounded most like the music I recall Doug playing for us. I wonder now if he had opportunity to practise on that organ at all before the service began. Despite that sudden change in the venue, he played magnificently. The things that we ask of our friends are endless but make for great memories.
