The Wedding Crasher

Mr. Pettit and I arrived early and slid into the hard wooden pew. We didn’t know any of the other guests, so we sat in silence, save for a few whispered exchanges about the historic church building/wedding venue and the identities of new arrivals.

As we waited, I thought about the journey that had brought us to Pensacola, Florida. A journey that consisted of more than miles.

When we received the invitation to the wedding of a daughter of dear friends (I’ve known the mother of the bride since kindergarten), there was no debate about whether we should attend. Our circle of extended family is very small now, so we cherish those who are sisters and brothers in heart if not in blood.

What made our decision even easier was the fact that my almost-lifelong friend, who had been wrestling with leukemia since last spring, seemed to be getting the upper hand at last. I had longed to visit her and give her a real hug, not the virtual kind, but her treatments had made isolation mandatory.

But my brain churned about how to make the trip happen. We had planned months ago to go camping in Georgia with our younger son, his wife, and their children on Mother’s Day weekend, one week prior to the wedding.

Should we drive back to Virginia, ditch the trailer, then hit the road again for Florida? Ugh. We like road trips, but such a quick turnaround would be challenging.

Flying wouldn’t pile more miles on the odometer (the car’s or our own), but we usually avoid air travel: too much hassle with packing (especially for yours truly) and going through security can be hit or miss. There’s something about me that screams, “Run this woman through the scanner again, swab her hands, and check her shoes. Does anyone have an MRI handy?” (Maybe my small eyes come across as beady.)

Finally, we hit upon the idea of traveling from Georgia to Navarre Beach, Florida, about an hour’s drive from Pensacola. We’ve camped there before and loved the aquamarine waters of the Gulf and pillowy soft white sand of the beaches. We’d have a little beach time, visit the National Naval Aviation Museum, and try to touch base with our friends before the wonderful frenzy of the wedding weekend began.

I must confess to more than a little trepidation about getting all dressed up for the wedding in the confines of our little home on wheels. I was especially worried that my naturally wavy hair would go completely Mr. Hyde on me in the Florida humidity. Trivial concerns indeed, but there you have it.

So, there I was in the pew, considering all these things, my dress relatively unwrinkled, my makeup unmelted, and my hair under control thanks to at least half a dozen different potions and the efficiency of my flatiron.

I breathed deeply, taking in the beauty of Old Christ Church. Although it’s no longer used by a congregation, I think I felt the afterglow of the multitude of prayers lifted up and hymns sung since it was constructed in 1832.

Then I saw her.

I might say I don’t know why I happened to look out the window at that very moment, but that would be untrue. It was as if Jesus Christ stepped out of the stained glass, tapped me on the shoulder, and whispered, “Look!”

My friend, A, was passing by on the sidewalk outside, preparing to enter the church. Her gorgeous Cinderella blue gown fit her perfectly, and beauty and strength radiated from her.

I have been blessed to see many wonders: the northern lights, a total eclipse, double rainbows, humpback whales at play, the soaring majesty of the Norwegian fjords, the depths of the Grand Canyon. All took my breath.

So did the sight of my friend.

For in her, I saw the hand of God at work. He had brought her to this glorious day through innumerable procedures and overwhelming fatigue and a host of treatments. A is a devoted follower of Jesus, and she had told me at lunch a couple of days earlier that she had asked Him to be with her through each new phase of her cancer journey, and He was.

The ceremony was a time of sweet worship. The gorgeous bride and her handsome groom were front and center, of course, but our focus was directed toward God, the One who instituted marriage, and without Whom marriages cannot succeed.

We then moved on to the reception. Mr. Pettit and I chatted with a few people before settling in at our assigned table. We were enjoying delightful conversations with our tablemates when the wedding party entered and the standard wedding rituals began: the first dance of bride and groom, the dance of groom and mother, and the dance of bride and father.

You expect a few “Aww’s” and even a misty eye or two as a dad dances with his little girl, now a bride. Even a mother of sons, like me, can put myself in his place, thrilled at a child’s happiness even as you wonder how the years flew by so quickly.

But this dance was special. One might say incredible.

J, who lost both legs below the knee to a glider crash, swirled and whirled his daughter about with ease to the song “Carolina Girls.” He didn’t shuffle a little back and forth; he danced what we in the South call “the shag” with grace and style.

I realized that the Lord had slipped into the festivities once again when I sensed His powerful Presence, shimmering with delight. A line from the movie Bruce Almighty came to mind: “Okay, God, now You’re just showing off.” I think He smiled at that.

J and A told us repeatedly how much they appreciated our coming to the wedding. We replied that there was no question we’d attend.

We didn’t know that a dip into the deep well of God’s goodness would be included. Although I should have remembered how much Jesus likes weddings.

Just ask the folks at Cana.

(Not familiar with the story of what happened when Jesus attended a wedding in Cana? See John 2: 1-11.)

Waiting for the wedding
Interior of Old Christ Church, Pensacola, Florida