OF STORMS AND STORIES: AN ANNIVERSARY TRIBUTE

It rained June 28, 1969, the day of our wedding! Not just a little rain! A lot of rain! Furious black skies unloaded their early afternoon ire. Drainage systems, quite competent in normal rains, lost their battle in this unexpected siege. Street lights attempted to lighten the gloom until they surrendered to the dictates of the power grid gone dark. 

I smile now as I remember the panicked calls alerting me the electricity was out in the church. “What will you do if the lights are not back on by 4 pm?” someone asked. 

 

“We have lots of candles! Not just on the platform but down the aisle. We will be fine.”

 

“But the organ,” worriers replied. “It won’t work without electricity.”

 

“There is a piano and a vocal quartet,” I responded. “The pastor lives close to the church, so I’m sure he can make it. A mere storm won’t keep George and me from showing up, and that’s all that matters.”

 

Encouragers, influenced by the earthy Iowa lore of my native state, assured me that a storm on the day of your wedding was the portent of a happy and prosperous life—or that it meant we would have a lot of children. No one agreed on which was the more accurate prediction. In retrospect, both were probably right.

 

Just in time, the sun came out, the lights came on, and the streets were passible an hour before the wedding started. Guest arrived, the organ played, vows were made, cake was cut and eaten, pictures were taken, the bride and groom left for their honeymoon, and the rest is history.

 

George and I liked the story of the storm on our wedding day. It added drama to what should have otherwise been a carefully scripted event. It gave us a reason to forgive the florist who failed to produce the flowers we ordered and who claimed he couldn’t go back and make it right due to the weather. It partially explained my less than festive coiffure and the stringy hair that hung limply under my veil. The storm hit us hard but didn’t keep us from getting married.

 

The wedding day storm served as an instructive metaphor for the life George and I began together that day. Over countless cups of coffee during the dating years, we had shared our dreams and made plans for our future. We had crafted such grand and glorious plans for the life we would build, the places we would live, the children we would have, the trips we would take, the service we would offer to make the world a better place, and the golden years we would savor hand in hand. Not once during all those hours did we spin tales of illness or injury, job loss, economic downturns, war in a far off place, or death. Yet those unbidden storms came, forcing us to adjust our plans, but never keeping us from what really mattered, which was loving each other, loving our family, serving our community, and loving and serving our God.

 

From our wedding day experience we garnered two patterns for how to meet other storms of life. The first—and I’m sure this would have been the influence of George, always the more level headed—was to keep focus on what really matters. (In his less-patient moments, he sometimes asked, “What’s the bottom line?” but that’s a different story.) In the midst of loss or delay, or when the bells and whistles or flowers and frills were falling away, we were anchored by keeping the true end in sight. The second lesson—and this might have been my contribution—was that in every situation, no matter how grim, it helped to remind ourselves, “This will be a great story some day!”