It’s slow at the beginning. We sit in cramped pews and gaze at painted walls and ceiling and windows, and wait. Wait for the music and the men and the maids and the bride. Chat among ourselves, quiet, and check phones for google answers to silly boy questions, and remember back twenty years to our own beginning.

It starts, swelling music and in they come, groom and his men, and beautiful girls, and cherished woman on the arm of the man who loved her first, on her way to the man who will love her forever. And it’s words and promises and signatures and beautiful music.

I watch from far back, peeking through the rows of all the people ahead and I snap a picture, thinking it will amount to nothing, but when I look later, scrolling though all the blurry shots of the day, it stops me.


Because when I crop out the heads and the shoulders and I see what is left, it’s everything. Two together, hands and hearts and lives joining in love and promise under the umbrella of all His holiness.

Sanctus. Holy.


And then what began slowly, deliberately, practiced … ends in a rush of new beginning as they sweep by, almost running to the future. As they pass, all young and excited and new in this, I pray a few words for the next day and the next. For the two of them and for where their love will take them.

New is only new for a short time, but holy is forever.